Murder in The 33rd Degree - Charles Murr

t^lurdev
in Îhe
55rd
^Degree
CHARLES THEODORE MURR
Cover design & illustration
by Enrique J. Aguilar
Illustrations by Enrique J. Aguilar
© 2022 Charles T. Murr
ISBN 9798432706935
SED QUIS CUSTODIET
IPSOS CUSTODES?
[But Who Will Guard the Guards Themselves ?]
JUVENAL
Roman Poet and Satirist, First Century AD

(Satires; Book VI, Line 347)
DEDICATION
to
His Eminence
ÉDOUARD CARDINAL GAGNON
Faithful Servant of Jesus Christ,

Priest, Bishop,
Loyal Son and Prince of the Church,
Philosopher, Theologian, Lawyer,
Teacher, Linguist,
Mentor, Guide,
Friend.
Contents
FOREWORD i
PREFACE xiii
A SEAT AT THE TABLE OF HISTORY 1
THE POPE’S BEAST OF BURDEN
FINDS A NEW STALL 19
A MIGHTY OAK FELLED 29
PURGATORIO IN DANTE’S FLORENCE 47
THE FIRST DELIVERY ATTEMPT 65
THE POPE’S PROPHECY FULFILLED 95
THE SMILING POPE 105
THE SECOND DELIVERY ATTEMPT 117
“GOOD NIGHT, HOLY FATHER” 129
A STROLL IN THE GARDEN 137
FROM A DISTANT COUNTRY 143
THE ARCHBISHOP ACTS 153
THE THIRD DELIVERY ATTEMPT 165
A MORE CIVILIZED JUNGLE 171
EPILOGUE 181
FOREWORD
By a Friend and Brother Priest
Murder in the Thirty-Third Degree - the title was too good

to pass up, but my friend Charles had some qualms about
using it because he did not want potential readers to think
this is yet another "conspiracy theory" book about the
death of Blessed John Paul I. His story does involve Vatican
intrigues and Freemasons, and the unexpected death of
that pontiff is one of its subplots. But the larger narrative
chronicles a noble effort by a dedicated man of the Church
to deal with corruption in the Roman Curia. He did this,
not as an investigative reporter or "whistle blower," but
at the direction of Pope Paul VI himself. Our author was
privileged to know this heroic figure, Archbishop Édouard
Gagnon, and this friendship gives him a unique vantage
point from which to tell his story.
Because Freesmasonry is frequently mentioned in this
book, Father Murr has asked me to provide a summary
explanation of how the Catholic Church views this
secret fraternity. There is a wealth of information (and
misinformation, and disinformation!) available to the
curious reader. Rather than attempt to describe its complex
history (a history made more complex by the solemn
secrecy Freemasonry enjoins on its members), I will briefly
summarize its broad outlines, and then present the position
of the Catholic Church vis-à-vis this organization.
Although Masonic lore traces its history back to the
age of the great cathedrals, and even further back to the
•ii* MURDER IN THE33RD DEGREE
building of the Temple in Jerusalem, Freemasonry as we

know it emerged in the early 18th century and can best be
described as a quasi-religious movement espousing Deist
principles that promotes an "enlightened" vision of human
brotherhood and progress. Many Americans, whose only
knowledge of the Masons is that they form fraternal
organizations to do good works, are for this reason puzzled
about why Catholics are forbidden from joining.
One objection from the Catholic point of view is that
Freemasonry has its own unique dogmas, ceremonies, and
hierarchy, and many of these conflict with fundamental
tenets of Divine Revelation as received and professed
by the Catholic Church. More dramatically, Masonic
organizations have played an active role in undermining,
and indeed persecuting, the Church, especially in
traditionally Catholic countries. The fraternité of the
French Revolution fueled the brutal murders of thousands
of innocent Catholic priests, religious, and lay people.
Masons have been active in anti-Catholic movements in
Europe over the past three hundred years. Closer to home,
on our very doorstep in fact, the Masonic government in
Mexico waged a bloody war against the Catholic Church
(1925-1930). In the city where I live there is a beautiful
convent of Carmelite nuns originally from Mexico; the
community had to flee their native land to avoid death.
These are simply women of prayer, devoted to a life of
seclusion, but their very existence was viewed as a threat
by the Mexican government. A more recent example of
anti-Catholic activity can be found in the 1981 "Vatican
Bank Scandal," in which the Italian Freemason Lodge P2
("Propaganda Due") sought to ruin the central financial
administration of the Holy See. I would suggest that this
incident lends credence to the concerns raised in this book
about the infiltration of Masons into the leadership of the
Catholic Church.
Given that at best Freemasonry espouses doctrines
FOREWORD •iii*
inimical to Catholic faith, and that at worst some Masonic

groups have actively sought the ruin of the Catholic
Church, it is not surprising that the popes have consistently
forbidden Catholics to join. The first prohibition was
published in 1738 by Pope Clement XII in his encyclical
Eminenti Specula, and this has been followed by more than
twenty similar statements, down to our own time.
This constant prohibition found expression in the 1917
Code of Canon Law:
Canon 2335: Those giving their name to masonic sects
or other associations of this sort that machinate against
the Church or legitimate civil powers contract by that fact
excommunication simply reserved to the Apostolic See.
This was the law of the Church when the events
recounted in this book took place. Thus, if someone in
the Roman Curia was a Freemason, he was by that very
fact excommunicated. Archbishop Gagnon's investigation
gathered a great deal of evidence about this. One reason
Father Murr has written this narrative is to get to the truth:
The only way to settle the question of whether and how many
high-ranking Churchmen were Freemasons is for Gagnon's
report to be made public.
The new Code of Canon Law promulgated in 1983 made
a significant change to Canon 2335:
Can. 1374: A person who joins an association which
plots against the Church is to be punished with a just
penalty; however, a person who promotes or directs an
association of this kind is to be punished with an interdict.
There is no explicit mention of "masonic sects."
It would seem that this new canon sought to take into
account the experience of Catholics in countries where
Freemasonry does not actively seek the destruction of
the Catholic Church, and to limit its sanctions to those
who join lodges with an anti-Catholic agenda. But even
if a particular Masonic organization does not work to
bring harm to the Church, there remains the fact that
•iv» MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
many tenets and practices of Freemasonry are contrary

to Catholic faith. For this reason, when the question was
raised after the publication of the new Code as to whether
Catholics were still prohibited from joining the Masons, the
Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith issued a brief
statement asserting that the prohibition still stands. The
rationale for this decision was described at length in an
article entitled "Reflections a Year After Declaration of the
Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith: Irreconcilability
between Christian faith and Freemasonry," which
appeared in L'Osseruatore Romano, March 11,1985.1 give
this commentary in its entirety because it offers the most
thorough explanation of the mind of the Church today on
the question of Freemasonry:
On 26 November 1983 the S. Congregation for

the Doctrine of the Faith (S.C.D.F.) published a
declaration on Masonic associations (cf. AAS LXXVI
[1984], 300). At a distance of little more than a year
from its publication, it may be useful to outline
briefly the significance of this document.
Since the Church began to declare her mind
concerning Freemasonry, her negative judgment
has been inspired by many reasons, both practical
and doctrinal. She judged Freemasonry not merely
responsible for subversive activity in her regard,
but from the earliest pontifical documents on the
subject and in particular in the Encyclical Humanum
Genus by Leo XIII (20 April 1884), the Magisterium
of the Church has denounced in Freemasonry
philosophical ideas and moral conceptions opposed
to Catholic doctrine. For Leo XIII, they essentially
led back to a rationalistic naturalism, the inspiration
of its plans and activities against the Church. In his
Letter to the Italian people Custodi (8 December
1892), he wrote: "Let us remember that Christianity
FOREWORD •v*
and Freemasonry are essentially irreconcilable, so

that enrolment in one means separation from the
other."
One could not therefore omit to take into
consideration the positions of Freemasonry from
the doctrinal point of view, when, during the years
from 1970 to 1980, the Sacred Congregation was in
correspondence with some Episcopal Conferences
especially interested in this problem because of the
dialogue undertaken by some Catholic personages
with representatives of some Masonic lodges which
declared that they were not hostile, but were even
favorable, to the Church.
Now more thorough study has led the S.C.D.F.
to confirm its conviction of the basic irreconcilability
between the principles of Freemasonry and those
of the Christian faith.
Prescinding therefore from consideration of the
practical attitude of the various lodges, whether
of hostility towards the Church or not, with its
declaration of 26 November 1983 the S.C.D.F.
intended to take a position on the most profound
and, for that matter, the most essential part of the
problem: that is, on the level of the irreconcilability
of the principles, which means on the level of the
faith, and its moral requirements.
Beginning from this doctrinal point of view,
and in continuity, moreover, with the traditional
position of the Church as the aforementioned
documents of Leo XIII attest, there arise then the
necessary practical consequences, which are valid
for all those faithful who may possibly be members
of Freemasonry.
Nevertheless, with regard to the affirmation
of the irreconcilability between the principles of
Freemasonry and the Catholic faith, from some
MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
parts are now heard the objection that essential

to Freemasonry would be precisely the fact that it
does not impose any "principles," in the sense of a
philosophical or religious position which is binding
for all of its members, but rather that it gathers
together, beyond the limits of the various religions
and world views, men of good will on the basis of
humanistic values comprehensible and acceptable
to everyone.
Freemasonry would constitute a cohesive
element for all those who believe in the Architect
of the Universe and who feel committed with regard
to those fundamental moral orientations which are
defined, for example, in the Decalogue; it would
not separate anyone from his religion, but on the
contrary, would constitute an incentive to embrace
that religion more strongly.
The multiple historical and philosophical
problems which are hidden in these affirmations
cannot be discussed here. It is certainly not
necessary to emphasize that following the Second
Vatican Council the Catholic Church too is pressing
in the direction of collaboration between all men
of good will. Nevertheless, becoming a member
of Freemasonry decidedly exceeds this legitimate
collaboration and has a much more important and
final significance than this.
Above all, it must be remembered that the
community of "Freemasons" and its moral
obligations are presented as a progressive system
of symbols of an extremely binding nature. The
rigid rule of secrecy which prevails there further
strengthens the weight of the interaction of signs
and ideas. For the members this climate of secrecy
entails above all the risk of becoming an instrument
of strategies unknown to them.
FOREWORD •vii*
Even if it is stated that relativism is not assumed

as dogma, nevertheless there is really proposed a
relativistic symbolic concept and therefore the
relativizing value of such a moral-ritual community,
far from being eliminated, proves on the contrary
to be decisive.
In this context the various religious communities
to which the individual members of the lodges
belong can be considered only as simple
institutionalizations of a broader and elusive truth.
The value of these institutionalizations therefore
appears to be inevitably relative with respect to
this broader truth, which instead is shown in the
community of good will, that is, in the Masonic
fraternity.
In any case, for a Catholic Christian, it is not
possible to live his relation with God in a twofold
mode, that is, dividing it into a supraconfessional
humanitarian form and an interior Christian form.
He cannot cultivate relations of two types with
God, nor express his relation with the Creator
through symbolic forms of two types. That would
be something completely different from that
collaboration, which to him is obvious, with all those
who are committed to doing good, even if beginning
from different principles. On the one hand, a
Catholic Christian cannot at the same time share in
the full communion of Christian brotherhood and,
on the other, look upon his Christian brother, from
the Masonic perspective, as an "outsider."
Even when, as stated earlier, there were
no explicit obligation to profess relativism as
doctrine, nevertheless the relativizing force of such
a brotherhood, by its very intrinsic logic, has the
capacity to transform the structure of the act of faith
in such a radical way as to become unacceptable to

a Christian, "to whom his faith is dear" (Leo XIII).
Moreover, this distortion of the fundamental
structure of the act of faith is carried out for the most
part in a gentle way and without being noticed:
firm adherence to the truth of God, revealed in
the Church, becomes simple membership, in an
institution, considered as a particular expressive
form alongside other expressive forms, more or less
just as possible and valid, of man's turning toward
the eternal.
The temptation to go in this direction is much
stronger today, inasmuch as it corresponds fully
to certain convictions prevalent in contemporary
mentality. The opinion that truth cannot be known
is a typical characteristic of our era and, at the same
time, an essential element in its general crisis.
Precisely by considering all these elements, the
Declaration of the Sacred Congregation affirms
that membership in Masonic associations "remains
forbidden by the Church," and the faithful who
enrolls in them "are in a state of grave sin and may
not receive Holy Communion."
With this last statement, the Sacred Congregation
points out to the faithful that this membership
objectively constitutes a grave sin and by specifying
that the members of a Masonic association may not
receive Holy Communion, it intends to enlighten the
conscience of the faithful about a grave consequence
which must derive from their belonging to a Masonic
lodge.
Finally, the Sacred Congregation declares
that "it is not within the competence of local
ecclesiastical authorities to give a judgment on the
nature of Masonic associations which would imply
a derogation from what has been decided above."
FOREWORD .ix.
In this regard, the text also refers to the Declaration

of 17 February 1981, which already reserved to the
Apostolic See all pronouncements on the nature
of these associations which may have implied
derogations from the Canon Law then in force (Can.
2335). In the same way, the new document issued by
the S.C.D.F. in November 1983 expresses identical
intentions of reserve concerning pronouncements
which would differ from the judgment expressed
here on the irreconcilability of Masonic principles
with the Catholic faith, on the gravity of the act
of joining a lodge and on the consequences which
arise from it for receiving Holy Communion. This
disposition points out that, despite the diversity
which may exist among Masonic obediences, in
particular in their declared attitude towards the
Church, the Apostolic See discerns some common
principles in them which require the same evaluation
by all ecclesiastical authorities.
In making this Declaration, the S.C.D.F. has
not intended to disown the efforts made by
those who, with the due authorization of this
Congregation, have sought to establish a dialogue
with representatives of Freemasonry. But since
there was the possibility of spreading among the
faithful the erroneous opinion that membership in a
Masonic lodge was lawful, it felt that it was its duty
to make known to them the authentic thought of
the Church in this regard and to warn them about
a membership incompatible with the Catholic faith.
Only Jesus Christ is, in fact, the Teacher of Truth,
and only in him can Christians find the light and the
strength to live according to God's plan, working
for the true good of their brethren.
The foregoing article expresses clearly the contemporary

•X« MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
threat of Freemasonry: not so much as an anti-clericalist

cabal seeking to wrest political power from the Church
(although the activities of "P 2" show that this spirit is
still active in some quarters), but rather Freemasonry
as a humanist movement which, while evoking "The
Divine Architect," in fact pursues secular, self-described
"Enlightenment" goals. The political role of the Church has
changed over the past one hundred and fifty years. Her
enemies today are for the most part those who would build
a human community without God, and certainly without
Christ and His Body, the Church.
The sudden death of Pope John Paul I prompted a
variety of conspiracy theories. Combine "Vatican intrigue"
with "Masonic plots," and it is not surprising that some
suggested that he was murdered to prevent him from
moving against Masons working in the Roman Curia.
The revelations of the intrigues against the Vatican Bank
a few years later suggest that the accusation is not as
outrageous as it might first sound. But, as Father Murr
tells us, even the man who was most familiar with the
extent of Masonic infiltration into the Curia, Archbishop
Édouard Gagnon, did not believe that the recently-elected
pontiff was murdered. Whether his fatal heart attack had
any connection with his meeting with Cardinal Baggio on
the night of his death must remain a matter of speculation.
What is decidedly not simply a matter of speculation
is the contention that some members of the Roman Curia
were (are?) Masons. Or better, it will remain a matter of
speculation until Archbishop Gagnon'sfindings are made public.
When opening the Vatican Archives to scholars, Pope Leo
XIII famously stated that "The Catholic Church has nothing
to fear from the truth of history." The "Gagnon Papers"
were the result of much hard work, often carried out in
the face of great opposition. They were produced by a
man who loved both the Church and truth. Those who
also love both can rightly ask that his findings must be
FOREWORD •xi*
made known. To continue concealing them will only feed

the speculations of conspiracy theorists and increase an
atmosphere of distrust.
The question might be asked: apart from shedding
some light on a comer of recent history, is the revelation
that high-ranking Churchmen were/are connected with
Freemasonry important? We will not have the answer
to that question, of course, until the extent of Masonic
infiltration is made known. I would suggest one significant
ramification in connection with the liturgy of the Roman
Rite. Critics of the post-conciliar reforms argue that in
many cases the "reform" called for by the Fathers of the
Second Vatican Council in fact led to a "replacement"
which wiped away time-honored liturgical traditions
handed on faithfully for many centuries. One can lament
or applaud the changes to Catholic worship since the
Council; no one can deny that they represent the jettisoning
of liturgical traditions on a scale unique in the history of
the Church. In the words of Joseph Gelineau, S. J., who
served on the Consilium to reform the liturgy, "To tell
the truth, it is a different liturgy of the Mass. This needs
to be said without ambiguity. The Roman rite as we knew
it no longer exists." [Demain la Liturgie (Paris: Les Editions
du Cerf), p. 77-8] If the man at the helm of the project,
Archbishop Annibale Bugnini, was in fact a Mason, this
could help explain why his Consilium produced texts so
at variance with centuries of liturgical practice. Did the
architect of "the new Mass" seek to give the Church an
ecumenical, enlightened liturgy that appealed to "modem
sensibilities" at the expense of fidelity to the Lex orandi of
the Roman Rite? Such a goal can be explained in part by
the Zeitgeist of the '60's ... but it also expresses the ideals
advocated by Freemasonry: a humanity that strives to
leave behind the limitations of outworn creed and dogma
to forge a new, "supraconfessional" humanity. Whether
or not Archbishop Bugnini was in fact a Mason matters
very much: if he was, then the liturgical reforms carried
•xii* MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
out after the Council may have been infected with Masonic
doctrines, doctrines inimical to the Revelation entrusted
by God to his Church. This in turn can help us better
understand, if not the fissure through which the "smoke
of Satan has entered into the temple of God," at least the
chasm dividing those who see the Second Vatican Council
as an expression of ongoing Catholic Tradition from those
who celebrate it as the beginning of a new Church. The
Council called for the Church to enter into sincere dialog
with the modem world - but this dialog should not require
a secret handshake.
PREFACE
There is a special magic about the first year after a man

is ordained a priest; I am sure this is also the experience
of newlyweds. You have followed your heart and made a
commitment for life. The dreams and "what ifs" are now
realized! The experiences of that first year remain green
throughout the unfolding years.
It was an added joy for me that I spent that year in
Rome, the Eternal City that holds a unique place in the
hearts of Catholics. Like most others, I will never forget
the first time I beheld the majesty of St. Peter's Basilica, nor
the first time I saw with my own eyes the Successor of that
humble fisherman chosen by Christ to lead his apostolic
band. The Holy Father we call him, and he occupies an
important position not only in the structure of the Church,
but in the affection of millions of believers. And then there
is the city itself, so cherished by saints (and sinners!) down
through the ages. What a privilege it was for me, in the first
flush of priestly joy, to offer the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass
in places sanctified by the relics and memories of the great
saints whose roll call is suggested by the names recorded
in the Roman Canon.
What I have said so far can be said by any of my
brother priests, especially those who had the experience
of spending time in the Eternal City with the sacred chrism
still fresh on their hands. As such, a memoir such as the one
recorded in these pages would be of interest to the family
•xiv* MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
and friends of a priest so singularly blessed. What makes

these pages of wider interest, I believe, is the fact that I
was there in "the Year of Three Popes", when momentous
events were unfolding in Rome. More than that, you will
discover as you read that Providence brought me into close
association with some remarkable people, whose story has
a significance far beyond my own personal connection with
them.
For this reason, I would suggest that this is more than just
an old priest's recollections of a young priest's adventures.
There is much talk these days of needed reforms in the
Roman Curia. This was true as well back in 1977-78, and
I was granted a unique vantage point: I lived with a man,
a truly great man, chosen by the pope himself to carry out
such a reform. His name was Édouard Gagnon, a French-
Canadian bishop. That his reform efforts were unsuccessful
was certainly not his fault: he carried out his mission with
integrity, courage, determination, and discretion. He did
his utmost to help three successive popes "clean out the
stables", but neither he nor they could prevail. Thus, I do
not write this simply as a memoir. It is a testimonial to the
labors of a man who loved the Church profoundly and took
on an unwelcome (indeed, a very distasteful) mission, and
his story deserves to be known by all who hold dear the
welfare of our holy Mother Church.
Mine is an unabashedly partisan narrative. I am not
a historian seeking to present a coolly objective account
of the currents - religious, cultural, and social - of that
momentous year. My friends were involved in the mess,
and they got hurt. I take their side without apology. In
these pages you will read about antipathy, jealousy, turf
wars, power plays. Are these why reform is desperately
needed? Well, yes and no. Of course, such attitudes and
actions are the dark side we all can recognize in ourselves
(thank God for frequent confession!), and it is not edifying
to find them alive and well in the lives of men dedicated to
PREFACE •xv*
the service of God and His Church. We expect better from

priests, and we should.
At the same time, we should not set our hopes too high.
To expect perfection from anyone, even a man of God,
betrays ignorance of both human nature and of the Bible.
Cardinal Newman once gave a conference entitled, "Men,
not Angels, the Priests of the Gospel" (Discourses to Mixed
Congregations, #3). The apostles themselves, of whom the
pope and bishops are the successors, come across at times
as petty, befuddled, and jealous. Jesus announces that he is
going to Jerusalem to be executed in the most horrible way,
and they are talking among themselves about who will get
thrones closest to Him when He drives out the Romans.
Even on the night of the Last Supper itself, as Our Lord
was giving them His very Body and Blood, and washing
the feet of these men who were about to betray, deny, and
abandon him, there they are arguing about who is most
important! So, yes, we want our leaders to be paragons
of virtue, we certainly want holy priests and bishops, but
the Church has over two thousand years of experience to
help us accept the tangled skein of virtue and vice that is
the human heart. She wants the best, but, like her Master,
has to settle for what's available. In this she shows greater
wisdom than our "cancel culture": as a friend observed,
we live in a world that permits everything and forgives
nothing. This world desperately needs the Gospel, which
offers both correction and mercy. It is a sorrow to me that,
when dealing with the failings of her leaders, these days
the Church seems to ape the anti-evangelical wisdom of
the culture around her: talk only to your lawyers and let
your spin doctors talk for you.
The human weaknesses, missteps, short-sightedness,
pettiness, and so on that are part of my story speak to
the subjective need for reform in the Roman Curia, as in
any human organization. But far more importantly, and
the principal reason why I have recorded this memoir,
•xvi* MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
is the need to address the objective reform of the central

administration of Christ's Church. Archbishop Gagnon
was commissioned by Pope Paul VI to investigate the
charge that the Curia had been infiltrated by men associated
with organizations intent on either the destruction of the
Roman Catholic Church, or at the very least its complete
neutralization as a force to oppose secularism and
relativism. It had been reported to the Holy Father that very
high-ranking, influential prelates were in fact Freemasons.
He asked the man I am honored to count among one of
my dearest friends and greatest mentors to undertake an
investigation. He did so at great personal cost, a price tag
I witnessed firsthand.
Archbishop Gagnon compiled an exhaustive dossier
which left him in no doubt that these shocking allegations
were in fact true. I never saw the contents themselves,
of course, and the man was discretion itself: he never
discussed his findings with me (or with anyone else, so far
as I know). But I did see that the files were hefty: weighty
in size, and I presume even weightier in content. Those
tomes were presented three times to successive popes, and
they now reside somewhere in the archives of the Holy See.
Serious reform of the Curia demands that these
documents must now be made public. If it is true that
the man responsible for nominating bishops all over the
world for years was a Mason, that could offer a clue to the
crisis of leadership we are experiencing. If it is true that
the man entrusted with the momentous liturgical reforms
carried out after an Ecumenical Council was guided
more by Masonic ideals than by the clear directives of the
Council Fathers, this could have infected the Church's
worship. Given the association between Lex orandi and
Lex credendi, if the architect of our reformed rites wore
a Masonic apron, the liturgical books now in use must
receive a serious theological review. And if, as Cardinal
Benelli once suggested, these two influential Churchmen
PREFACE «xvii«
were just "the tip of the iceberg", how many other members
of the Curia were the subject of Archbishop Gagnon's
very thorough and well-documented investigation? We
don't know. The answer is to be found in the documents
themselves. Only when this information is made known
can the needed objective reforms of the Roman Curia be
addressed. Holy Father, in the interests of transparency,
to further much-needed reform in Rome, and indeed for
the very vitality of Christ's Church, I implore you to make
public the documents my friend labored so assiduously to
provide to your predecessors!
•xviii* MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
A SEAT ATTHETABLE OF HISTORY
A SEAT AT THE TABLE OF

HISTORY
Monday, June 27,1977
The first bell of the Angelus bonged loud and low from
the campanile. A passel of startled pigeons took to flight
and disappeared in the azure of a near-perfect Roman sky.
I dropped my cigarette to the cobblestones and stubbed
it out while bidding a brief farewell to my friends and
coworkers, Silvio and Naldo, and turned to take a shortcut
from the Vatican Information Office to the ultramodern
papal audience hall, the Aula Nervi.
No sooner had I crossed the threshold when I came to
an abrupt halt. There before me, in the normally wide-open
vestibule, were a series of off-white sheets of canvas.
These had been hung from ceiling to floor to create four
open-fronted cubicles. And, in the center of each stood
a middle-aged man attired in scarlet from the zucchetto
[skullcap] on his head to the socks on his feet.
Stationed at each of the five lateral panels was a young
Swiss Guard attired in Medici red, gold and blue, plumed
helmet, spats and boots, and clutching a menacing spear
should any miscreant need dissuading. Passing the first
booth, I mocked a reverential nod to one of them, my
Helvetian friend, Oberstleutnant Dominique Tourville,
standing stiffly at attention. Bypassing three-quarters
of the newly-minted cardinals —Italian, Luigi Ciappi;
German, Josef Ratzinger; and African, Bernardin Gantin
— I took the last place in the last line of elegantly-attired
personages. Everyone in this particular queue was waiting
.2. MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
to congratulate the man who for years had served as private

secretary, most trusted confidant, and Deputy Secretary of
State to His Holiness, Pope Paul VI; the same man named
Archbishop of Florence by the same pope, and even more
recently —this morning, in fact— elevated by him to the
cardinalate: Giovanni Benelli.
Waiting my turn in the Benelli line, I thought back to
the first time I met him...
Cortile Belvedere. Four years ago. Of course, I knew of
him long before then. No one in Rome hadn't heard of Giovanni
Benelli. Of the half a million Catholic priests in the world, was
there one who couldn't name the pontiffs right-hand man?
True, Cardinal Jean-Marie Villot was the pope's Secretary
of State, but it was the Deputy Secretary of State, Giovanni
Benelli, ivho had the greater influence on him. Not surprisingly,
Villot's odium for Benelli ran as deep as his sense of his own
importance - nor did the Frenchman make an effort to conceal
either. Villot's envy of the younger and more brilliant Benelli
accounted for much of the antipathy between them, but the
undisputable dissimilarities between them had far more to do
with diametrically opposed ideologies than with conflicting
temperaments. More on this a little later.
A dignitary and his wife —the woman in front of me
referred to them as "the Peruvian and 'Mrs. Ambassador"'
— retreated after taking a photo with Benelli, and I
advanced two paces. My memory shifted from that first
brief encounter to a far more significant meeting that
had taken place just over a month ago. Even as it was
happening, I knew that I would never forget that dinner.
It had all started with a phone call at eleven o'clock from my
friend Monsignor Mario Marini. He was callingfrom the office.
"That's right," he said, "An afternoon in the country. Let's
get out of the city for a few hours," the deep bass voice half
ordered, half coaxed, "We leave at four-thirty. You've never
been to Lago di Bracciano?" he asked rhetorically, "The
peace. The fresh air. And, oh-o-o-o-oh, Charlie!" he chuckled
A SEAT AT THE TABLE OF HISTORY •3.
Giovanni Cardinal Benelli
with anticipatory delight, "The best tagliatelle ai porcini and

grilled whitefish this far south of La Romagna/"
"Just a minute," I managed to get in a word, "What is it
we're celebrating?"
"Humph!" he retorted, "Since when do two good friends need
a transcendental reason to get together, to escape the maddening
noise of the city, and to enjoy a simple dinner in each other's
company?"
•4« MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
"I don't suppose they do. It's just that..."

"Good." he spoke over me, "Holy Office entrance, 4:45," he
said and, as was his custom, immediately hung up.
Telephone protocol was not Mario's forte. He didn't like
phones. Never trusted them.
Something was up. That much I was sure of. In all our
Roman years offriendship Mario Marini had never remained
working in the Secretariat of State after hours, that is, without
eating lunch and - far more important to him than pranzo -
without taking a siesta! Don't get me wrong; in all of Vatican
City, you couldn't find a more dedicated and diligent worker
than Don Mario Marini. Daily, when he returned home from
the Secretariat of State, he brought with him a stack ofhomework
and proceeded to dedicate five or six extra hours to addressing
delicate matters of State for the Holy See. But that my noble
mentor was willing to forego his forty-minute daily siesta was
next to impossible for me to believe. It was - it was against his
religion!
No, something was definitely up.
Again, the line shortened and I inched a little closer to
the newly-created Cardinal Benelli.
When Mario and I arrived at Lago di Bracciano we took
advantage of the extended daylight and went sightseeing around
the lake. He pointed out the old summer residences of the
American and German Colleges on the hill. Long ago I stopped
using words like "quaint" and "charming" to describe Italian
hamlets, villages, towns, countryside scenes - even ancient and
medieval sectors of large Italian cities. That said, the little town
ofBracciano, the tranquil waters of the lake, the setting sun and
the very atmosphere were dreams made real.
We got off the main road and onto a much narroiver and
winding one that brought us into the village ofAnguillara and
the Chalet del Lago. Mario parked his yellow Fiat and insisted
we take a walk along the shore.
Eventually roe made our way back to the rustic Chalet. I
A SEAT ATTHETABLE OF HISTORY •5*
noticed a second car, a navy-blue sedan, now parked near ours.

I followed Mario into what seemed an empty restaurant made
almost completely ofwood. With the red sun setting on the lake,
wooden walls and knotty pine beams, we could have been in the
north of my native Minnesota. Looking around, I smiled to see
several tables and chairs covered with cheesecloth and, draped
over the chair-backs, large round sheets of pasta set out to dry.
"I told you, the tagliatelle are fresh and homemade," Mario
proudly announced.
Just then an older gentleman appearedfrom the kitchen and,
wiping his hands with a white towel, walked over to us. "Buona
sera. Monsignore," he greeted Marini, raising his still wet
hands, a sort of silent apology for not shaking his. Obviously,
this was the owner and, just as obviously, he and Mario knew
each other. "You are expected, Monsignore," the owner told
Mario and pointed to his right, "The comer table."
Mario turned toward the windows facing the placid lake
and took a few steps in that direction, and then a broad smile
came to his face. There, in the red glow of the setting sun sat the
Vatican Deputy Secretary of State, Bishop Giovanni Benelli, and
the former Head of Personnel for the Secretariat, now Deputy-
Secretary in the Congregation for the Clergy, Monsignor
Guglielmo Zannoni. A moment later, the Vatican minutante
[curial official], Don Mario Marini, and his astounded young
American sidekick, me, were seated at table with them.
Straightaway, a caveat came to me out of the blue: "Better
to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove
all doubt," and, at once, I made a conscious effort to follow this
prudent advice.
Given that the three men before me had known each otherfor
years and worked together, the exchange ofgeneral pleasantries
was brief. Then the question-and-answer session. Where was I
bom? Were my parents still alive? What did my father do for a
living? What was I studying? When was I ordained?
It was Monsignor Zannoni who mentioned that Cardinal
Felici had recently ordained me. "A brilliant lawyer and superb
classicist, His Eminence," Benelli complimented Felici. "And

Archbishop Édouard Gagnon preached at the ordination,
in Italian, English and French," Zannoni added. Almost
imperceptibly, but not quite, Giovanni Benelli did not follow
up on that last bit of information but steered the conversation
in another direction. There was something about Gagnon that
seemed to bother him. Perhaps they were at odds?
But right before the evening ended, as he was bidding a
goodnight to Mario, Benelli's true respect and esteem for the
French-Canadian archbishop made itselfknown. "Tell ourfriend,
Gagnon, that not a day goes by that he is not in my prayers. Tell
him, I pray God keeps him strong and safe from all harm. Make
sure you tell him that from me, please."
On the ride home, I asked Mario to explain the awkward
conversational moment at table, and what Archbishop Benelli's
cryptic message for Archbishop Gagnon meant. Mario began
by explaining why Archbishop Édouard Gagnon - with whom
he and I usually formed a lively trio— was not invited to this
particidar meal.
"He hasn'tfinished the Papal Visitation [i.e., Investigation of
the Roman Curia]," Mario explained. "For the sake of honesty,
and for the sake of appearing honest, Benelli can't speak with
Gagnon until he's completed the investigation and handed over
his final report to the pope. And, as you know, Gagnon's not
finished... Not yet... In case you're still wondering about it,"
Marini said with a satisfied grin, "Benelli thinks the world of
Gagnon; of his intelligence, his honesty, and his integrity. He
wouldn't have given this extraordinary assignment to anyone
else... Enough said, " he said.
So, it was Giovanni Benelli who proposed Édouard Gagnon
for Papal Visitor to the Roman Curia; Benelli who convinced
Pope Paul VI that Gagnon ivas the best man for the job; Benelli
who, for honesty's sake, could no longer communicate with
Gagnon until he finished the critical and delicate task assigned
him. Now I understood. Not only did I finally understand, but
the great admiration I already hadfor both men rose higher still.
"Home," by the way, was the Lebanese Residence on

Monteverde Vecchio, just off the Gianicolo Hill. There,
Archbishop Édouard Gagnon, Monsignor Mario Marini and I
lived together in liberty, fraternity, and exceedingly good humor
(rather than illusionary equality.)
Finally, I was at the head of the reception line - and
with no one behind me, at its tail-end as well.
The man in red and I made eye contact. A full smile
came to the round Tuscan face as he gestured "Avanti"
with his right hand. I approached and made an awkward
half-genuflection. "Charles Murr, Sua Eminenza;" I
reintroduced myself and continued in Italian, "I'd hoped
to be among the very first to congratulate you today, but
I seem to be the very last."
"Don Char-lie," Benelli exaggerated my very American-
ringing first name, "Fratellino dal nostro Don Marini
[Little brother of our Father Marini]," he said with two or
three affirming head nods. "Anguillara," he added, as
emphatically as an "Amen" to a prayer.
"What a memory you have, Eminence!"
"A very handy thing, a good memory," he affirmed,
"People, places, things, events great and small —they
should all of them be remembered," he said, "And above
all people!" he emphasized. "Take, for example, the date
of your ordination," he said with a grin. Then, glancing
upward, he tapped his index finger on his right temple:
"Friday," he began, "Friday, the thirteenth of May, in this
Year of Our Lord, nineteen-hundred and seventy-seven.
Am I close?!"
"Wow!" I exclaimed with that very Yankee expression
of astonishment, "Memory's one thing," 1 exclaimed, "But
how did you even know that to remember it?!"
I never doubted Benelli's reputation as an organizational
genius, but the reason for his nickname, "Sua Efficienza"
[His Efficiency]" was becoming crystal clear.
•8* MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
"At table," he answered straight away, "Monsignor

Zannoni remarked how beautiful your ordination was.
I asked when you were ordained, and you answered:
'Friday, the thirteenth of May.' The connection between
your ordination and my own baptism was effortless.
A different year, of course," he grinned and raised his
eyebrows slightly, "I wasn't twenty-four hours-old when
I was baptized. Now, you ask me when that was."
"And when was that, Eminenza?" I obliged.
"The year: 1921. The day: May the thirteenth. And, as
coincidence would have it, Don Charlie," he put his right
hand on my shoulder, "in 1921, the thirteenth of May fell
on a Friday. So, you see: for me to forget such a thing as
your ordination date would actually be harder than trying
to remember it."
"Impressive, all the same," I said with admiration,
"impressive and humbling."
"Humbling? That your memory is not as good as
mine?" he questioned.
"No, Your Eminence; that Cardinal Giovanni Benelli
would remember my name and anything about me.
Humbling," I repeated.
State-of-the-art lighting and neutral canvas backdrops
made the red of Benelli's cassock appear more striking
still. Or, was it Giovanni Benelli himself? Power, faith and
genius transfigured. Then, as during the dinner at Lago
di Bracciano, I knew I was in the presence of greatness;
face to face, one on one, with Giovanni Cardinal Benelli;
Archbishop of Florence and, very possibly, Christ's next
Vicar on earth.
Naturally, the new cardinal made a special point of
praising his former minutante: "More than Don Mario's
clear thinking and talents, which are many," he nodded
to underscore the sincerity of his words, "it is his faith,
well-tested and solid, his insights, and the strength of his
convictions. Remarkable," he said admiringly, "You have

a great teacher and friend in Don Mario," he said in all
earnestness and, if I was not mistaken, with a faint trace of
honest envy —if, indeed, such a virtuous vice exists. "No
doubt about it, Eminenza" I answered, "I've been blessed
and spoiled."
"You both must come to visit me in Florence," he
offered. I promised we would. Then he asked in perfect
English: "Could I ask a favor of you, Don Charlie? Would
you be so kind," he asked, and pointed to a side-table with
commemorative cards and booklets, "as to lend a helping
hand?" I immediately agreed and the cardinal went toward
the comer of the sheeted cubicle for his leather briefcase.
Since I was "last man standing," and the cards were in
obvious disorder, I understood that I was to gather them
up and return them to their boxes. In no time flat, I finished
with the cards. I caught Benelli's eye, respectfully raised
my hand in a goodbye salve and exited the well-staged
vestibule.
The dazzling sunshine left me squinting my way from
the audience hall to Piazza Santa Marta and my parked
car. The entire way there, I thought of Benelli's words of
praise for that "most worthy teacher" I was blessed with.
I thought how radically Mario Marini had changed my life
and how much he meant to me. These past four years, not
only did I have Mario as my mentor, maestro, counselor,
spiritual director and father confessor, above all else, he
had become my older brother, my best friend, and the
most dramatically positive influence ever in my life. I felt
outrageously privileged—because I was!
So, how did this monumental man from Ravenna
become my mentor, father, older brother, my friend?
September, 1974. Second floor of the modem, Aztec-
inspired, Pontifical Mexican College; near the glass doors
to the Guadalupe chapel.
Around eight o'clock that evening, two men, one
• 10* MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
larger-than-life, the other slightly "less large," were

walking toward me in the corridor. The taller seemed to
be in his mid to late thirties, and as he got closer, I saw that
he was the same Italian priest who had been introduced
to everyone an hour ago, at dinner. He would now be
residing at the college.
He stopped in his tracks and, with the enthusiasm of a
sailor who has just sighted land, he exclaimed in Spanish:
"Oh-o-o-o-o-o-oh! This must be the famous 'Ch-a-llie' I've
heard so much about!" His deep bass voice reverberated
off the floor-to-ceiling windows. His companion was also
in a Roman collar, a Mexican also in his mid-thirties. The
Italian, with the broadest smile and exuding bonhomie,
walked right up to me, looked me straight in the eyes,
and said: "I have it on good authority that a lone gringo
dwells in these parts," he ribbed good-naturedly, and at
once shook my hand, "You must be him!"
"And you must be?" I asked, unsure of his name,
though I had heard it an hour before.
"I must be Mario," he answered with a chuckle, "Mario
Marini," he said strongly but weakly pronouncing the "r's"
in each name, as a Frenchman might pronounce Latin. I
noticed it first when he pronounced "Charlie" rather
"r-lessly."
"Padre Emilio Berlie-Belaunzaran," the priest next to
Don Mario Marini introduced himself, impatiently, as if
anxious to get back to the more important matters the two
of them had been discussing before stumbling upon me,
the proverbial bump in the road.
To be sure, I had never met anyone as straightforward
as this Italian cleric, nor anyone with such a commanding
presence. His Mexican companion exuded too much of a
superior air for me to give him a second thought. But Marini,
this Don Mario Marini, I immediately found intriguing —
and something told me the feeling was mutual.
Don Mario Marini had returned to Rome after three
A SEAT AT THE TABLE OF HISTORY • 11.
Monsignor Mario Marini
years teaching theology in the regional seminary of

Chihuahua. He moved into the Mexican College after
spending a few days with his family.
After supper the following evening, Don Marini
knocked on my door. I was in the middle of an assignment
due the next day at the Gregorian University. He insisted I
set aside my homework and take a walk and have a coffee
with him. With a very warm smile, he forewarned that he
would not take no for an answer. He repeated this the next

evening, and the evening after that, and every evening
thereafter for several weeks. More often than not others
joined us, since Marini was the gregarious sort and had
an easy way of involving everyone in the conversation.
As for me, I liked it best when it was just him and
me. Those nightly walks were much more than just
enjoyable; they were thought-provoking and intellectually
stimulating. I found myself learning all sorts of things and
making sense of many things I knew a little about but by no
means enough about; problems stemming from unresolved
medieval wars to the stress factors of modern-day bridge
building.
I quickly became accustomed to Mario Marini's knock
on my door and —though I never said so— really looked
forward to hearing it. Those next few months we met
regularly, after supper, for the twenty-minute walk to
the Golden Brazil Café where we'd take a cappuccino and
a Petrus, and strain to hear one another over "Crocodile
Rock" blaring on the backroom jukebox.
"Please, Charlie, I'm tired of asking you to call me
'Mario'," he moaned out comically one evening as we
made our customary jaunt. "It's not in me to call a priest
by his first name," I answered honestly and respectfully.
"Well," he halted his stride in the middle of the crosswalk,
"then dig deeper until you find the ability to call a potential
friend by his first name. By the way, I like the sound of
my name," he said and smiled largely, "I like it almost as
much as I like the name 'Charlie.' Almost, but not quite as
much," he laughed.
"We're friends, then?" I asked as we resumed our walk.
"Of course not," he snapped, "Not yet, anyway. You
studied Aquinas; you know the difference between act and
potency."
"Yes. And?"
A SEAT ATTHETABLE OF HISTORY • 13«
"Friendship has structure. Rules. Like all good and

well-ordered things have. We, you and I, are potential
friends. If that potential friendship develops, there's a
chance we might become actual friends," he laughed, but
laughed seriously.
Later on, I would discover that Mario —yes, that
evening I brought myself to call him by his first name—
wrote his second doctoral dissertation on the nature and
structure of Amicitia [Friendship].
I was twenty-four. Mario Marini was thirty-seven;
thirteen years my senior; younger than my parents by
seven years.
Mario and I did not normally converse in Italian
or English. Spanish suited our communication needs
perfectly. As it was the mother tongue of neither, it put
us on equal linguistic footing —equality being a principal
tenet of friendship. What's more, it afforded us the freedom
to speak openly with each other in public, guaranteeing
privacy from eavesdroppers. Truth be told, there was
another, slightly devilish plus to speaking Mexican Spanish:
we could both cuss —a thing neither of us would do so
freely in his own native tongue— with ease and without
remorse, since, for all intents and purposes, the swear
words meant nothing to us. In fact, they meant very little
to the Mexicans themselves, unless spoken in anger.
Little by little, Mario and I learned each other's history,
convictions and opinions. It was our logical, pragmatic,
and personalist philosophies that united us so deeply. Why
wouldn't they? We were both Catholics — fervent Catholics.
Our life histories, however, could hardly have been more
divergent. My life, I thought, was nothing spectacular.
Oldest of seven children. Beautiful parents. Beautiful home.
Beautiful home life. Solid Catholic upbringing and formal
education. In Rome, now, I thought, to finish a licentiate in
philosophy. No immediate plans to marry until finishing
law school. Maybe Georgetown?
• 14«
"And has my American friend ever fallen in love?"

Mario once inquired seriously.
"I don't know..." I answered rather offhandedly,
"Don't think I ever really fell in love... Stepped in it three
or four times, but never fell."
By far, Mario Marini's was the more dramatic life — or,
should I say, traumatic life? And he didn't seem in any
great hurry to tell it. Thinking back on that preliminary,
revelatory period of our relationship —now that I'm much
older and just a hair wiser— I see that Mario revealed his
personal history to me slowly, measuredly, episodically,
to let what he was saying sink in, before adding to it.
He wanted -I think— to see if I was really "picking up
what he was laying down." He was judging my reaction
to his revelations every bit of the way. Was I sufficiently
empathetic to the obstacles he had faced, dealt with, and
overcome in life? Did I appreciate what it cost him to have
become a priest?
I did understand, and evidently he saw that I did
because, in three months' time, we had learned just about
everything there was to learn about each other's life. And I
for one never found a single installment of the Mario saga
boring. Rich material was there, to be sure, but it was also
Mario's way of telling and explaining the twists and turns,
the about-faces, the surprises and all the rest, that enticed.
My friend was born on the thirteenth of September,
1936, in Cervia-Ravenna. Romagnolo through and through.
He had an older sister, Catarina, and a younger brother,
Pierpaolo, and though the middle child he was the firstborn
male. This, Mario explained —unnecessarily, since I had
lived in Italy long enough to witness this phenomenon
countless times — was extremely important in Italian family
dynamics. More was given to him, and more was expected
of him. His father, a civil engineer, dictatorial and cynical
by nature, did his best to make life difficult for him —for
him and everyone else in the family, but especially for him.
A SEAT AT THE TABLE OF HISTORY • 15«
His mother, a woman of very strong temperament and

even stronger opinions, was tall, tough, seldom smiled and
seemed always to have a lit cigarette between her fingers
or her lips. I met Mario's joyless progenitors several times
and saw firsthand the semi-crippling effect they continued
to have on him, even as an adult. In fact, the only times I
saw any hint of weakness in my fortress of a friend was
when he was in the company of his parents. Individually or
jointly — the mater and the pater were much more effective
as a tag-team— they could suck the oxygen out of any
joyful occasion, and in no time flat.
The greatest turmoil in the Marini Family was provoked
by "religion," or more accurately, was blamed on religion.
Mario's parents and both sets of grandparents were dyed-
in-the-wool Marxists; his father, a "devout" atheist; his
mother, an anticlerical "mangia-prete" to the bone. Karl
Marx was the sole savior of humanity, and Marxism was
the daily piadina [flatbread] that nourished the Marini
children. Signore and Signora Marini were proud of
being very active, card-carrying members of the Italian
Communist Party.
At fifteen, Mario's love for soccer got him to join the
Catholic Action youth group where, for the first time in
his life, he heard the rudiments of Catholicism. Two years
later, he asked his parents' permission to go on a weekend
camping trip with friends. Instead, he attended a vocation
retreat at the Ravenna Seminary. When his father got wind
of it, he became furious, marched into the seminary and
physically pulled his son out of the retreat. He then grabbed
the director by the front of his cassock and threatened to
kill him should he or any other priest ever again approach
his son.
Upon graduation, his father enrolled him in the School
of Engineering at his own alma mater, the University of
Bologna. He made sure his son was always kept busy
— most especially during summer vacations. Through
comrades in local government, L'ingegnere Marini secured

for his son the most coveted job any athletic, good-looking
young man could ever hope for: lifeguard on the poshest,
most girl-packed beaches on the Adriatic. Meanwhile,
Marini senior constantly went out of his way to mock
religion, hoping to erase from his son's mind the horrific
notion of becoming a priest.
At age 24, Mario Marini finished his doctorate in civil
engineering, magna cum laude. That same night his mother
surprised him with a huge congratulatory party at home.
She had taken great pains to invite some of the finest, most
beautiful and eligible young ladies of Ravenna. It was time
her son Mario went into business with his father, found
himself a wife, and started a family.
But that evening her son had a surprise in store for her,
too, and for his father, his siblings, and everyone within
shouting distance. An hour or so into the party, in the
crowded kitchen, Mario Marini made an announcement
to all present:
"All my life I've done everything you demanded of
me," Mario told his parents, "What I promised to finish,
I have finished. Today is the beginning of my life." He
handed his father the doctoral scroll he had been posing
with for photos: "This is what you wanted, Papa; it's
yours," he said, "with my sincerest thanks for all you've
given me. Tomorrow morning, I leave for Milan to start
what I wanted to begin six years ago. I've been accepted
into the Milan Seminary."
For the very first time in his life, L'ingegnere Marini was
speechless —speechless but instantly fuming mad. Adding
insult to injury, his special guest, the chubby syndicate
leader of Ravenna's Communist Party, turned to him and
asked incredulously: "A priest? You said he was done with
all that." His son's words were like burning coals heaped
upon him and the rage inside left him literally unable to
speak.
A SEAT AT THE TABLE OF HISTORY • 17.
Then, the deafening silence in the kitchen and dining

room came to a stingingly abrupt end. La Signora Marini,
outraged and humiliated before a houseful of guests,
hauled off and slapped her son as hard as she could with
the back of her broad hand and screamed out a statement
that would remain with Mario and all present a lifetime:
" Better a slut-whore for a daughter than a filthy priest for
a son!"
Early the next morning, "the morning after the
night before," following the graduation party to end all
graduation parties, without a goodbye to anyone, Mario
Marini silently made his way to the Cervia Station and
boarded the train for Milan.
"Why Milan? I mean, didn't Ravenna have a seminary?"
I had asked him the one and only time he recounted the
whole parental horror story. We were seated at the writing
desk in his room at the College.
The reasons, he explained, were three.
Knowing the Marini family's strong and
multigenerational affiliations to the Communist Party and
having learned of the threats Mario's father had made on
the life of the former seminary rector, the Archbishop of
Ravenna decided it would be in everyone's best interests
for Mario to study philosophy and theology at a safe
distance from Ravenna. Secondly, the young Dottore Marini
was much older than the average first year philosophy
students. In the much larger and better-staffed Seminary
of Milan he could receive more personalized academic
attention.
"And the third reason?" I asked him.
"Divine Providence," Mario gave the short answer and
then proceeded to give the even shorter one: "Money."
Since Signore and Signora Marini had been extremely
vocal about severing ties with their son, funding for
Mario's seminary education had to be found elsewhere.
• 18» MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
When Mario's most unusual circumstances reached the

ears of Milan's archbishop, he investigated it further and,
finding it true as reported, decided to resolve the difficulty
himself. With his own personal funds, the Archbishop of
Milan established a theology scholarship for a deserving
student. With a second stroke of the pen, he awarded the
first scholarship to the young engineer from Ravenna,
Dottore Mario Marini.
Three years later, Mario's generous benefactor,
Archbishop Giovanni Battista Montini, became the sixth
pope to take the name of Paul. When Mario completed
his studies in Milan, the pope, who had followed his
progress from the very beginning, called him to Rome
and continued underwriting his studies toward a second
doctorate in theology. The pope's trusted friend and his
Deputy Secretary of State, Bishop Giovanni Benelli, sent
funds from the pontiff's personal account to the Gregorian
University, where Mario was enrolled, and to the Coliegio
Lombardo, where he resided. Furthermore, Bishop Benelli
saw to it that the "engineer from Ravenna" was granted a
personal audience with the pope each Christmas that he
might thank him for his ongoing generosity.
In 1966, the day arrived for Deacon Mario Marini to
be ordained to the priesthood. The ordination and first
Mass took place in his hometown of Cervia-Ravenna.
Begrudgingly, his mother was in attendance. Though Santa
Maria Assunta Cathedral was but a few blocks from the
Marini family home, Mario's father, L'ingegnere Marini,
refused to witness the shame his son was bringing on him
and his family.
Like St. Francis before him, Mario Marini had found
a true mother in the Church and true fathers in Christ's
pastors. How fortunate he was to have Montini and Benelli
in his life... How fortunate I was to have Marini in mine...
• 19.
THE POPE’S BEAST OF

BURDEN FINDS A NEW
STALL
Sunday, December 4,1977
"I would 'ave liked to attend," said the French-

Canadian. He passed a two-page letter to me and casually
explained: "This goes in the Lateran University file,
please." He lowered his head slightly and looked at me
over his glasses, "...but I 'ave to avoid anything partisan
— or anything that could be taken for partisan."
Good-natured, good-looking, strongly willed and
strongly built (not an ounce of fat on his 5'10" frame),
Archbishop Édouard Gagnon had just moved into the
Lebanese Residence with Mario and me. When he and I
finished transferring his belongings from the Canadian
College to his new room (two doors down from mine), he
asked if I could help him, "from time to time," organize
the virtual mountain of documentation he had acquired
and was continuing to acquire in his investigatory labors.
He also asked if, "from time to time," I would drive him
to appointments and meetings, especially where time
and parking were issues. Gladly, I agreed. The sermon he
preached at my ordination was unforgettably beautiful
and his great kindness to my mother and father during
those special days for them in Rome was above and beyond
gracious. All of that aside, Édouard Gagnon's authenticity,
his simple charm, honesty and personal sanctity made me
want to be in his company as often as he would have me. And
when it came to driving him around the city, Archbishop
Gagnon owned the only Fiat in Rome with an automatic
transmission, making the hundreds of stop-and-goes

shiftlessly easy. What's more, Gagnon's Fiat had Vatican
diplomatic plates, which made driving into, around, and
"over" Roman traffic a virtual joy! Chauffeuring him was
also good for my ego; Gagnon never tired of praising my
urban navigational skills: "In the 'eat of Roman traffic, Don
Carlo, Mario Andretti's got nothing on you!"
Édouard Gagnon was brilliant yet unassuming, wise
beyond his fifty-eight years, a manly gentleman with a
delightful sense of humor. As a bishop he was utterly
without arrogance, guile or vainglory. A rare and wonderful
exception to the Roman rule.
He was one of thirteen children bom into a loving family
in Montreal. His first major decision in life was choosing
between the Catholic priesthood and professional baseball.
Obviously, he chose the first, but not to the total exclusion
of the latter. After completing his first doctorate, he was
named professor of moral theology at Le Grand Séminaire of
Montreal. As such, each year, June to September, the young
professor was free from teaching but not from working.
Father Gagnon was sent as summer help to a parish in
Brooklyn, New York, which allowed him to frequent
Ebbets Field as often as his priestly duties and meager
savings permitted. He was and would always remain an
avid Dodgers' fan - still (and forever) irritated with Walter
O'Malley for moving the club to Los Angeles in 1957, and
unwilling to absolve Robert Moses for his part in that
catastrophic betrayal.
At 28 Gagnon completed a second doctorate, this one
in canon law, from L'Université de Laval. After holding
various positions in Canada, he was appointed Rector of
El Seminario Mayor de Manizales, Colombia in 1961 —"the
happiest time of my life," he was fond of saying. Three
years later he was elected Provincial of the Sulpicians for
Canada, Japan, and South America, and also served as
a peritus [theological advisor] during the Second Vatican
THE POPE’S BEAST OF BURDEN FINDS A NEW STALL •21.
Council. In 1969 he was consecrated a bishop, and in 1972

was called to Rome where he was named Rector of the
Pontifical Canadian College.
As a papal secretary, Mario Marini came to know
Archbishop Gagnon when seeking legal advice on certain
matters for the Holy See. Suffice it to say, Marini was
duly impressed with Gagnon: his mind, work ethic and
no-nonsense professionalism. Knowing the Canadian
archbishop's love for Latin America, Marini invited him
to the December 12th fiesta of Our Lady of Guadalupe at
Pontifical Mexican College. It was then and there, between
Son de la Negra and Volver, Volver, that Don Mario Marini
introduced Archbishop Édouard Gagnon to the mariachis'
sole gringo and second-trumpet: me.
Gagnon was fluent in seven languages and spoke them
all with a beautiful yet decidedly French accent. When the
two of us were together, we usually spoke English with
a smattering of French; when Mario was with us, it was
Spanish with a smattering of everything else.
One evening in 1977, over a plate of carbonara in the
far back corner table at Polese's, Mario and I learned from
a visibly shaken Gagnon that his rooms in the Canadian
College and his office in San Calisto had been broken
into and ransacked. He added an even more shocking
revelation: "Last night," he said quietly, "I received another
death threat —the second in two months."
"Phoned, or written?" Mario asked automatically.
"Written," answered Gagnon.
"You called the police, no?" I inquired.
Gagnon dismissively shook his head in the negative.
"Charlie, Charlie," Marini rebuked, "Involve the civil
authorities? Call in the clowns? For so serious a matter?
Never."
Édouard Gagnon then proceeded to address the more
specific reason he asked us to dinner.
.22. MURDER INTHE33RD DEGREE
Edouard Cardinal Gagnon
He wondered if it wouldn't be better for the delicate

mission entrusted to him by the pope - to say nothing of
his own physical safety — to stay a bit closer to trustworthy
friends, i.e.z Mario and me. Naturally, both of us encouraged
him to do just that. Archbishop Gagnon took the last room
available on our floor in the Lebanese Residence. I spent
the following Saturday driving his brown Fiat back and
forth between the Canadian College and our place, carting
THE POPE’S BEAST OF BURDEN FINDS A NEW STALL •23.
boxes of books, clothing, and photographs — and several

sealed boxes of documents.
Now, by no means did the good archbishop entertain
the notion that Mario Marini and Charles Murr would
make a fine pair of bodyguards in an emergency. While
his change of address had much to do with friendship and
the trust he had in Mario and me, Édouard Gagnon was far
too pragmatic to rely on us for physical protection.
As I say, Archbishop Gagnon was a pragmatist.
You see, our house, the Lebanese Residence, had
recently received another resident: another archbishop,
in fact. After two and a half years of Vatican/Israeli
negotiations, fifty-five-year-old Hilarion George Capucci,
Melkite Archbishop of Jerusalem-In-Exile, had just been
released from an Israeli maximum-security prison. He had
served two years of a twelve-year sentence for smuggling
weapons to the PLO [Palestinian Liberation Organization]
on the West Bank. The Syrian archbishop's room was at
the one end of the third-floor corridor, mine was at the
opposite end of the same corridor, and Marini and (now)
Gagnon had the two center rooms.
Why was this the ideal "safe house" for Archbishop
Gagnon? And why did he need protection in the first place?
As to the former: given Archbishop Capucci's unique
situation, directly outside our building were parked two
vans and a Mercedes-Benz sedan — each occupied by men
armed and ready for action, 24/7. The first van belonged to
the Syrian Secret Police, the second van to the Israeli Mossad,
and the sedan to the Italian SISMI [Military Intelligence
Agency]. They did nothing but watch Via Fratelli Bandiera,
19 — and each other. Though each organization had its own
reasons for being there, all three had their focus on one
man: Archbishop Hilarion George Capucci.
But why did this Canadian archbishop need protection?
Why had his rooms been ransacked and his life threatened?
•24* MURDER INTHE 33RD DEGREE
This brings us to the center of our drama, and it is essential

for me to provide some historical background.
On the Solemnity of Saints Peter and Paul, June 29,
1972, in the Basilica of Saint Peter, His Holiness, Pope
Paul VI delivered a sermon that immediately captured
the attention of millions throughout the world, Catholic
and non-Catholic alike. Lamenting the chaotic state of the
post-Vatican II Church, the pontiff declared: "Through
some fissure, the smoke of Satan has entered the Temple
of God."
A couple of years later, two highly-respected Cardinals
of the Roman Catholic Church — Cardinal Dino Staffa,
Prefect of the Apostolic Signatura [the Supreme Court of the
Catholic Church] and Cardinal Silvio Oddi— met privately
with Pope Paul and placed before him documentation of a
very damning nature — documentation indicating exactly
where in the temple wall His Holiness might find that
fissure.
The damning documents concerned two high-ranking
members of the Roman Curia: Cardinal Sebastiano Baggio,
Prefect of the Sacred Congregation for Bishops, and
Bishop Annibale Bugnini, Deputy-Secretary of the Sacred
Congregation for Divine Worship. With proof in hand,
Staffa and Oddi formally accused Baggio and Bugnini of
being active Freemasons and, as such, traitorous infiltrators
of the central government of the Roman Catholic Church.
The seriousness of the matter could not be greater, given
the positions these men held.
Cardinal Sebastiano Baggio, Prefect of the Sacred
Congregation for Bishops since 1973, decided who would
and who would not become a bishop of the Roman Catholic
Church. He chose these episcopal candidates from a pool
of half a million priests throughout the world. As the
successors of the Apostles, bishops are absolutely essential
to the existence of the Church. If, as Staffa and Oddi alleged,
Sebastiano Baggio was the "Freemason Ambassador to the
THE POPE'S BEAST OF BURDEN FINDS A NEW STALL •25.
Holy See," the havoc he was in a position to wreak upon

the universal Church could cause irreparable damage. The
bishops who had been nominated on his watch reflected
Baggio's own liberal ideological views. In the view of Staffa
and Oddi, and some others in the Roman Curia, the "Baggio
Boys" were self-styled "progressives" who were opposed
to the central authority of Rome, all too ready to jettison
theological orthodoxy in the name of " aggiornamento" and
"dialogue" with the world. They argued that this trend
was supported by the values of the creed of Freemasonry
that Cardinal Baggio covertly espoused.
As for Bishop Annibale Bugnini, Secretary of the
Congregation for Divine Worship and undersecretary in
the Congregation for Rites, his Freemason attachment, if
true, could explain the radical liturgical revolution taking
place in the Catholic Church. The implementation of the
directives of the Second Vatican Council had patently
gone far beyond the stated intentions of the Council
Fathers, and indeed at times actually contradicted them.
Venerable rites, customs, and devotional practices that
had been safeguarded and passed on for centuries were
simply swept aside. Several members of the committees
formed under Archbishop Bugnini, who had served as
experts during the Council, came to regret and repent
of their involvement in the work of liturgical reform. As
he watched the machinations of Archbishop Bugnini,
one of these theologians, Father Louis Bouyer, came to
the conclusion that the man was "as bereft of culture as
he was of basic honesty." Annibale Bugnini's Masonic
membership could certainly explain much that was going
drastically wrong in the Church, liturgically, doctrinally,
and morally.
Cardinals Dino Staffa and Silvio Oddi urged the Holy
Father to bypass his Secretary of State, the Frenchman
Cardinal Jean Villot, when dealing with this matter
because they believed his ties with the accused, and in
particular with Cardinal Sebastiano Baggio, were too close

for comfort. At their behest the Holy Father turned this
sensitive and potentially explosive situation over to the one
man who enjoyed his complete trust: Archbishop Giovanni
Benelli.
By papal mandate, at once, the Vatican Deputy Secretary
of State, Giovanni Benelli, set out to double- and triple
check the authenticity of the documents; to verify them and
verify them again. The pope met with Archbishop Benelli
and they agreed that nothing was to be said about these
grievous accusations to the Secretary of State, Cardinal
Villot, until the right investigator could be identified and
an official announcement of the investigation be made.
"Then, be very quick about it," Papa Montini directed.
And he urged that the matter be kept extremely confidential.
"Certainly, I share your desire for secrecy on this
entire matter," Benelli declared, "however, how can it be
successfully executed in absolute secrecy? I will need help
with this. There are two men in the Secretariat who have
shown themselves trustworthy. I ask your permission to
enlist their assistance in this, Holy Father."
Out of curiosity, not mistrust, the pontiff asked: "Do I
know them?"
"Archbishop Donato Squicciarini," he answered, "and
our Ravenna Engineer," he said, referring to the longtime
beneficiary of the pope's beneficence, "Mario Marini."
It took Giovanni Benelli months to uncover what his
investigation called for, but through vast international
diplomatic networking and after extensive examination
of the evidence, he knew much more about Baggio and
Bugnini than he cared to know, and more about the two
than they themselves did. He had more than sufficient
evidence of Baggio and Bugnini's membership in French
and Italian Freemasonry. When Benelli reported back
to Pope Paul, he assured him that, although Baggio and
Bugnini were the "pezzi grossi" [heavyweights] in this Vatican
THE POPE’S BEAST OF BURDEN FINDS A NEW STALL .27.
scandal, they were only "la punta dell'iceberg" [the tip of the
iceberg], an image the Italian archbishop had picked up
while serving at the Nunciature in Ireland.
Pope Paul VI and his Deputy Secretary met alone in the
papal apartment. As Benelli feared, after he demonstrated
his findings to the Holy Father and explained them at
length, the pope did not say a word. The look on his tired
face was one of confused concern. If he was disinclined to
speak about the results, thought Benelli, how much more
reluctant would he be to act? Nonetheless, knowing his
boss better than anyone else in the world, Giovanni Benelli
anticipated this very reaction and broke the silence with a
sweeping proposal.
" What this calls for, Holy Father," he began forcefully,
"is an in-depth and official investigation. An impartial,
independent, far-reaching, thorough investigation —one
that does not involve me at all. There's reason to believe
that Vatican finances are also in jeopardy. No, Holy
Father," Benelli said more vigorously, "this calls for a top
to bottom, bottom to top inquiry," he said and looked the
pope squarely in the eyes, "A visitation," he announced,
"A Canonical Visitation of the entire Roman Curia. Yes," he
said, with a very Roman shrug of the shoulders, the palms
of his hands outward and upward, "No doubt, this will
take time and great competency to complete... perhaps a
year or two," he said, certain that the more time added to
the equation, the more at ease it would put the pope. No
"decisive and definitive judgement" was being asked of
him —not just yet, at any rate.
"If Your Holiness agrees," Benelli pushed forward,
"I have just the man for the assignment. Fit and able."
"Poverello [The poor man]," the pontiff sighed softly, already
feeling sorry for whoever it was Benelli had in mind, "And
who might this unfortunate fellow be?" the Holy Father
asked with a look of concern, as he pushed back his chair
and slowly rose to his feet.
Giovanni Benelli also stood, turned his head quickly

from side to side, and straightened up. He cleared his
throat, then spoke: "A French-Canadian canon lawyer
and theologian," he said, "I am impressed by the man's
integrity, his intelligence and his faith. Archbishop
Édouard Gagnon, Holy Father. Rector of the Canadian
College. We have solicited his legal opinions on various
questions and his responses have always been clear, exact
and correct. Gagnon is true believer in God and a loyal son
of the Church."
"Fit and able..." the Pope muttered to himself and
mused momentarily over his friend's recommendation, "...
If you also find him willing, Giovanni, then let him begin,"
the old man concluded, and turned toward the tall oak
door to leave for his chapel.
•29«
A MIGHTY OAK FELLED

February io,1978
Both hands resting atop the low enclosure wall,

seventy-three-year-old Jean Cardinal Villot stood staring
at some fixed point on the campanile's sooty façade. He
took in an extra deep breath of the cool early afternoon air.
It was one o'clock, Friday, the tenth day of February, 1978;
two days into Lent, with a gray and heavy atmosphere to
match both the liturgical season and the cardinal's sour
mood. He left the terrace and headed for his office, smiling
slightly to two men and a woman seated uncomfortably
in the cramped waiting room. With a slight nod to the
uniformed porter who rose dutifully the moment the tall
Frenchman reentered the secretariat from his cigarette
break, Villot started down the narrow hallway and told
the young priest, his diplomat-in-training secretary, to call
in the last appointment of the day.
Jean Cardinal Villot took his seat at the desk and
waited impatiently. More than enough time had passed,
Villot assured himself: nearly ten months, now, since he
was freed from the obnoxious proximity of his personal
nemesis; ten months since Giovanni Benelli had the pope
promote him to be Archbishop of Florence and then, in
record time, convinced the pope to name him a cardinal!
Well, promoveatur ut amoveatur —the silver lining to this
particular cloud was that Cardinal Giovanni Benelli had
been "kicked upstairs" and was now far away from the
Secretariat of State and the Holy See.
Yes, it was time. High time... Just a few more minutes

and it would be over. Villot looked at the clock on his desk.
One-fifteen. Where was the man? Was he making him wait
on purpose? Did he suspect this was about to happen?
No. Nonsense. How could he? Besides, the Secretary of
State had not said a word to anyone — except to Casaroli,
and if there were two areas in which Agostino Casaroli
excelled, they were in never thinking for himself and
always keeping his mouth shut. Golden attributes in the
diplomatic world! Jean Villot found these, coupled with
Casaroli's own jealousy of Benelli, reason enough to give
him Benelli's old job as Deputy Secretary of State.
Where was he? There were less than ten minutes before
quitting time.
Benelli had been a long thorn in Villot's side for all
those years they were forced to work together. But now, as
a cardinal, the Tuscano would not only be a major player in
the next papal election, he would be his principal adversary.
Not that Villot entertained any illusions of becoming the
next pope himself. No, his fear was that Benelli might be
elected. In any event, the time had come to settle a few old
accounts, one with a remote cause four years old.
Where was he? Where was Giovanni Benelli's personal
spy in the Secretariat of State?
The proximate cause for score settling was the
mysterious Apostolic Visitation of the Roman Curia
that had been going on now for two years. This secret
investigation — planned and executed independently of the
Secretary of State himself! — was under the sole direction
of Benelli's handpicked and papally-appointed Archbishop
Édouard Gagnon. And presently, the French-Canadian's
explorations had brought him dangerously close to Villot's
closest Vatican ally, the man he had fought hard to be
named Prefect of the Congregation for Bishops: Cardinal
Sebastiano Baggio.
No one doubted that somewhere inside Édouard
A MIGHTY OAK FELLED •31.
Jean-Marie Cardinal Villot
Gagnon's reportedly monumental collection of files lay

the reason for Bishop Annibale Bugnini's shockingly swift
removal from the Congregation for Divine Worship and
his "promotion" to Iran as nuncio. By now, everyone
in ecclesiastical Rome had heard the scathing claim of
Bugnini's membership in Italian Freemasonry.
But the straw that broke the Cardinal Secretary of
State's back was yesterday's disturbing report regarding
•32* MURDER INTHE33RD DEGREE
a dangerous move —both literally and figuratively — by

Archbishop Édouard Gagnon. Villot was seated at his long
desk in the conference room when Monsignor Franco Croci
entered with the news.
"He left the Canadian College," Croci informed his
anxious superior, and then whispered: "They say his rooms
there had been broken into," and raised his eyebrows.
"Yes, yes," Villot snapped, "Tell me something I don't
know."
"Yes," the monsignor answered, "but — and I think Your
Eminence will find this most interesting - His Excellency,
Bishop Gagnon now resides at number nineteen, Via Fratelli
Bandiera."
"And I should find that interesting, because ...?" Villot
asked as he lit another stinking Gauloise and inhaled deeply.
"Well ...," Croci continued slowly, "It seems that the
'Visiting Inquisitor' has taken the room right next door to
our very own Don Mario Marini!"
That was it!
What more proof did Villot need? With Benelli no
longer there to protect Marini, he would rid himself of
the traitor with one swift blow to the neck. And, through
Croci and a few others like him, he would get the word
out to every curial cleric who valued his career to avoid
their former colleague like the plague.
Mario Marini arrived and entered, but Cardinal Villot
did not invite him to be seated. Instead, swiftly and most
unceremoniously, he dismissed him from the Secretariat
of State and declared him persona non grata in Vatican City.
As none was technically required, he was given no reason
for his dismissal. The news fell on Mario's head and broad
shoulders like a virtual ton of Roman bricks and, before
he could catch his breath, Villot presented the now former
minutante with a prepared statement declaring that he
A MIGHTY OAK FELLED .33.
accepted the Holy See's decision to terminate his services

without protest.
"I remind you of your oath of obedience to our Holy
Father, the pope, and to the Holy See," Villot stated. "It
is the Holy Father himself who demands this of you. His
Holiness wishes your departure to be an amicable one."
With his head spinning from the shock of the coup
de grace and the brutal briskness of its execution, Mario
Marini, pen in hand, leaned over and obligingly affixed his
name to the paper. Then, without a word, he walked back
to his desk. In a mental fog he gathered up his belongings,
knowing that he would not be given a second chance to
retrieve anything left behind. Now, in a near complete
confusion, somehow the shaken priest managed to make
it to the Cortile del Belvedere, get into his Fiat, and exit
Vatican City through the Porta Santa Anna. How he got
home without having an accident will always remain a
mystery to me.
From my corner reading chair, half way through
Nedoncelle's, La Souffrance, I heard the Fiat pulling up
beneath my window, and then the loud manual pull on
the emergency handbrake, Mario's signature move. Two
minutes later, Mario himself was standing front and
center in my room, having entered without the customary
preliminary knock on the door. He stood there, pale and
speechless. There was a lost look in his eyes that I had
never before seen.
"Good God, man! You look like you you've seen a
ghost!" I exclaimed.
"I think I have," he muttered, "My own."
He let his stuffed leather book bag and box of papers
drop from his arms onto my bed.
I rose to my feet at once, pulled up a chair for him and,
though it was the middle of the day, reached behind my set
of the Summa Theologica. I had no idea what had happened
to him, of course, but I knew enough to bring out the bottle

of Vecchia Romagna. He remained silent as I poured two
short glasses of the Etichetta Nera.
Mario downed the drink in one swift swallow —yet
another first for me to see. I offered a second shot but he
refused.
"I just put in my last day at the Vatican," he muttered.
"What are you talking about?" I raised my voice and
tone, unsure I heard him correctly.
He spoke slowly. I listened carefully, taking in each and
every word, trying not to show my own deep shock as I
beheld, for the first time ever, the solid fortress of my friend
reduced to a defenseless wreck of a man. I occasionally
interjected a question to keep him from going off track.
From boyhood, I have been at my best in an emergency.
The first to push onlookers at the scene of an accident to
one side so I could step into the middle of a crisis and do
something about it; the one to break up fights; to remove
his shirt and bandage a wounded head while others just
looked on. I was alert to the bugle call. And here was my
friend in urgent need of first aid!
"And Benelli?" I inquired firmly, "Benelli will know
what to do... You haven't spoken to him yet, have you?
No!" I changed my mind midstream, "On second thought:
we do nothing until Gagnon gets home. That's right," I
affirmed, "We'll wait for Gagnon. He's a friend and a
lawyer! He'll know what to do..."
"Yes," Mario muttered, "Gagnon will know."
"My gut feeling, Mario, is that this has a hell of a lot
more to do with Benelli and with Gagnon's investigation
than it has to do with you —with you personally. Am I
wrong?"
"No, no," Mario finally piped up, and with some spitfire
back in him, "You're not wrong. That wretched man has
always hated Benelli; he hates him even more now that
A MIGHTY OAK FELLED •35*
he's a cardinal — a cardinal and in the running for pope...

He hated me the moment Benelli introduced me to him."
"Good," I was temporarily satisfied, "Then you and I
will wait for Gagnon to come home. We'll talk things over
with him. Let Gagnon be your first line of defense. He'll
probably tell you to talk with Benelli. But we'll wait for
Gagnon. Wait and see."
"You're right," he said already slightly encouraged.
"And try not to be surprised when Benelli isn't," 1
added.
"What? What was that?" he asked with a very confused
look.
"I say: try not to be surprised when you discover that
Benelli isn't surprised by what happened to you today."
I clarified, "I mean, nothing of any significance happens
in Rome without Benelli knowing it. It doesn't matter
whatsoever that he's in Florence. Doesn't matter one bit!
Benelli could be on the moon; his ears and eyes would
still be on Rome. He's got to know by now," I checked my
watch, "about what happened between you and Villot,
that is."
"Of course," Mario tried to be positive, "He has to know
by now," he agreed.
Again, he began to mention some details from the
horrible meeting he had had with his former boss when
the buzzer in his room next door sounded. He got up at
once and walked directly to the phone booth at the end of
the hall to answer the call.
When he returned, ten minutes later, it was with the first
glimmer of hope that I had seen in his eyes that dreadful
afternoon.
"Benelli," he blurted out in the deep bass voice, "He
wants me to drive to Florence and see him."
"Fantastic! When?" I asked excitedly.
"I leave tomorrow morning."
"Excellent!" I exclaimed, "That's excellent!" I

congratulated him.
I thought Cardinal Benelli's would be the first in a
series of phone calls offering my friend help and support,
but it was in fact the last phone call. Not even Donato
Squicciarini phoned.
However, an hour or so after the Benelli call, I heard a
commotion on the street below and went to the window.
It was Monsignor Guglielmo Zannoni trying to reach the
gate. He had shown up in person without having phoned
first. I called to him from the window, and after he got
the "once over" by the Italian "FBI" on "Capucci-Patrol,"
the stocky seventyish Zannoni — spectacles, threadbare
cassock and all— was found "unthreatening enough" to
enter our modern-day Middle Eastern citadel. Once inside
the lobby, I was there to meet him. He was obviously
shaken from the security ambush. "Great!" I thought to
myself: "One man in need of sedatives, upstairs; another
one, downstairs!" At any rate, I did my best to calm him
down and, in capsule form, attempted to explain the
unusual front gate circumstances.
"From the moment Archbishop Capucci arrived,
anyone unknown to the Israelis, the Syrians, or the Italian
FBI —all of whom are parked very un-inconspicuously
right outside our gate," I stated with as much chagrin as
I could muster, "is frisked and interrogated before he's
permitted to enter the sacred precincts within." I then
accompanied our surprise guest to the elevator.
Monsignor Guglielmo Zannoni was the embodiment
of humility and kindness. Half his monthly salary went to
the poor. No coins dropped into a poor-box; no cheques
to some benevolent institution; Zannoni went personally
to visit the poor and the sick. He handed sealed envelopes
to those unable to put bread on the table or to meet
that month's rent. I had learned all of this from Marina
Colonna, owner of Bar/Cafe Sant'Ufficio, a stone's throw
from where I worked at the Ufficio Informazione. As tough as

she appeared on the outside, Marina had a heart of butter.
Quietly, she too helped a number of Rome's unfortunates,
especially elderly and lone survivors of World War II. One
of her oldsters told her of Monsignor Zannoni's monthly
charity runs.
As much as I loved and respected — and owed -- Mario
Marini, I also had a rather eclectic collection of friends
I counted on for advice: Pascalina Lehnert, the wise old
Bavarian nun; Enzo Samaritani, the married-with-children
Roman sophisticate; Édouard Gagnon, the scholarly and
courageous; Guglielmo Zannoni, the humble and saintly.
Yes, I had friends my own age as well, but they never
seemed as interesting to me as my older friends. Nor could
I speak as freely with any of them —in fact, I couldn't speak
with any of them about the most things important in my
world, delicate matters that I'd promised Mario, Gagnon,
Zannoni and Squicciarini to keep absolutely to myself.
When, finally, the elevator showed up and we arrived
outside Mario's room, I left Zannoni and him alone to talk
out the disastrous happenings of the day. Half an hour
later, two solid bangs on the wall told me I was invited to
join them.
"Of course," Zannoni hesitated, when I walked in, and
then got an OK-nod from Mario to continue, "as I was
telling Don Mario," he cleared his throat, ".. .certainly, the
personal antipathy between Cardinal Villot and Cardinal
Benelli explains what happened today. Cardinal Villot
takes Don Mario for a, well, for a Benelli emissary."
"A Benelli emissary?" I questioned the word usage.
"A spy," Mario clarified.
"Yes," Zannoni concurred, "A 'spy,' if you will... His
Eminence feels freer to act without you and me there to
take note." He turned and looked at Marini.
"Tell Charlie what Villot did to you" Mario coaxed him.
•38. MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
"The appointment?"
"To the Congregation for the Clergy," Mario completed
it for him, "Yes, exactly. Just last year."
"What is there to tell?" Zannoni asked rhetorically, "I
was asked to leave my post..."
"Head of personnel for the Vatican Secretariat of State,
no less," Marini interjected.
"Yes," continued Zannoni, "in the Secretariat of State,
and accept the position of Deputy-Secretary to Cardinal
Wright, your compatriot," he looked at me and smiled,
" A very good man, Cardinal Wright. Clear-thinking,
pragmatico..."
"Without letting Benelli, his Deputy-secretary, know
a thing about the 'promotion,'" Mario emphasized, "So
the good Monsignore, here," Mario continued, "an eminent
canonist and one of the finest Latinists in the world, head
of personnel for the entire Secretariat of State, was relieved
of his responsibilities in the Secretariat to serve as assistant
to an American cardinal."
"But you forget," Zannoni offered, "it was with Cardinal
Benelli's knowledge and final approval."
"And you forget," Mario went on, "that Benelli discussed
it with you beforehand —and had you not agreed to the
transfer he would have fought for you to stay right where
you were."
"Don Mario," he said and lowered his head, "from the
beginning, I go where I am sent."
"All I'm saying is that it's one thing to say he knew,
it's another to say he approved." Mario corrected, "There's
no way Benelli approved of what Villot did to you — when
Villot finally got around to telling him, Monsignore." Mario
disagreed with his guest's overly charitable interpretation
of last year's maneuverings, "Villot sent you to the
Congregation for the Clergy because he considered you
an ally of Benelli. And because he had the upper hand

just then."
"The upper hand," I repeated, "What do you mean by
that?"
"He knew Benelli wanted Florence and the red hat. And
it was obvious that Benelli had arranged that, privately,
with the Holy Father. Pope Paul saw the writing on the
wall," he simply affirmed the inevitable, "and gave his
blessing to it."
"And, oh, how it must have pained him —to resign
himself to live the rest of his days without Benelli, his
trusted friend!" Zannoni's somewhat lachrymose lament
sounded like an exclamation from a Greek chorus.
"It was either that," Mario jumped back in, "or leave
Benelli to be torn apart and devoured by ravenous hyenas
the second after he breathed his last!"
"God forbid," Zannoni said under his breath.
"And Villot knew that Benelli wouldn't do anything
that might ruin his chances for Florence. No, Villot is bent
on ridding the Secretary of State of anything related to
Benelli! Yesterday, it was you," he told Zannoni, "today
it is me."
It was completely unlike Mario Marini to feel sorry
for himself like this. It unnerved me to see him so deeply
wounded and it unsettled me to see him so vulnerable.
Yet, I couldn't blame him. The world, his world, had been
pulled out from under him and he was flat on his back
with all the wind knocked out of him. But, seeing how and
where Mario was at this moment, my personal question
was: how and where was I in all this? He needed me strong
and reassuring right now. I put on my most confident face
for him —and for myself.
"Well..., I understand your anger and your pain,"
Zannoni said and closed his eyes very tightly for a moment,
"...And I understand how the injustice of the dismissal
•40» MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
Monsignor Guglielmo Zannoni
makes you want to lash out," he went on, "But, I'm afraid
this battle —and I do not minimize it, caro Mario, not at all
— but I'm afraid that the injustice foisted upon you today
is blinding you to the much greater war going on," he said,
"Now, in these very days, the future of the Church herself
hangs in the balance."
"The next conclave?" I was impertinent enough to
mention it by name, "Is that what you mean?"
"Could there be anything more crucial?" the Monsignor
answered my question with his own, "Anything more vital
A MIGHTY OAK FELLED .41.
to the Church at this time in history than the conclave

that elects the next pope?" he asked me. Then, after
taking a moment to weigh his words, he turned to Mario:
"Obviously, the cardinal-electors must select the right
man, a man of God, with fortitude and courage, to lead
God's Church out of this —this— out of this ungodly state
of chaos," he took a deep breath, "This weighs on Benelli
heavily, day and night." He addressed Mario, "We all
know that the outcome of the next conclave is all-important
to the future of the Church... What happened to you today,
Mario, was a sword to the heart," (I had never heard him
called Mario Marini by his first name before today), "but
you, more than anyone, know that this is about so very
much more than you. Cardinal Villot would like nothing
better than for Benelli to come running to your rescue —so
he could accuse him of meddling in the internal affairs of
the Secretariat of State. You know how a perverse mind can
twist and manipulate such things to its own advantage...
You mustn't let Cardinal Benelli get burned trying to help
you. Not now. Not this close to the next conclave."
"Do you think I don't know that?" Mario retorted with
respectful restrain, "But I've got to say, my friend, that
right now, with all that's happened to me today, the last
thing on my mind is the next papal election."
"Then I suggest you reprioritize," said Zannoni with
more force and determination than I had ever heard in
him. "Do not ask Benelli to do anything that, at this critical
time, would put him in direct conflict with the Secretary of
State ... not to mention a conflict with Cardinal Baggio."
"O-o-o-o-o," moaned Marini, "Imagine the triumphant
joy in that black heart today! Baggio had his fat hand in this,
too; Villot and Baggio! I've been in that Judas's crosshairs
for years — the Masonic traitor... I'll get Giuseppe Lobina
on the case," he said, like a man grasping at straws, "He's
one of the best lawyers in Rome."
Zannoni shot Mario a reproving glance.
"It's all right;" Marini responded to his look, as if to

say: Charlie knows.
And what I knew was precisely what the two men seated
before me knew; what Cardinals Giovanni Benelli, Silvio
Oddi, and Pericles Felici knew. I knew what the former
Prefect of the Apostolic Signatura, Cardinal Dino Staffa,
knew (and who, weeks prior to his recent demise, had
turned over to Édouard Gagnon every piece of evidence he
had concerning the Bugnini and Baggio Freemason matter).
And, naturally, I knew what Cardinals Baggio and Villot
knew; and what the recently-appointed Nuncio to Iran,
Bishop Annibale Bugnini knew. I knew it all, all too well.
Seeing Mario so upset, so out of sorts, so not himself,
caused me to speak boldly: "I say: make no decision, and
take no action whatsoever, until Gagnon gets home. With
all due respect, Monsignor Zannoni," I turned to him
directly, "I suggest you and I leave Don Mario alone right
now," then, turning directly to Mario Marini, "and that you
lie down, put your feet up, and try to rest. As for me, I'd
love to give our good and loyal friend, Monsignor Zannoni,
a ride home - and on my way back," again I looked at
Mario, "I'll stop and get you something to eat. That's what
I say," I added emphatically.
Unbelievably, my voice, the voice of reason, registered
with my audience of two.
No sooner had I returned from taking Zannoni home
and delivered a specially-made calzone and small bottle
of Montepulciano to Mario Marini, when I heard agitated
noises from the street below. Once again, Archbishop
Gagnon was desperately attempting the impossible: fitting
his sizeable Fiat Mirafior into a parking place designed for
a Fiat 500.1 hurried down to help him park and manage
whatever he had to carry in. There was always a box of
something. Of course, first and foremost on my mind was
to tell him the news about Mario.
Today, the 58-year-old Canadian looked particularly
A MIGHTY OAK FELLED •43«
fatigued; not worn out, but certainly worn down. Even

his glasses looked wrong for his normally full and strong
face; they rested too low on his nose. Édouard Gagnon
had spent the entire afternoon at San Calixto in Trastevere.
Before I could say a word about Mario, he began airing a
few complaints about his own day: ".. .interviewing people
who asked me not to meet with them in their own Vatican
offices. Even inside San Calixto, some asked to speak with
me on the terrace, others in the garden — one even asked to
be interviewed in the parking lot. What a day," he groaned
quietly and concluded with one of his favorite French
sayings, "E voila pourquoi votre fille est muette!"1
Then, between the gate and the front door, I blurted it
out: "Mario was fired from the Secretariat this morning.
Villot dismissed him. No reason given."
Gagnon stopped walking, raised his head, and
straightened his back.
"How is he taking it?" he asked me, "I mean, I don't
suppose he's taking this laying down."
"Hard," I answered.
"Let's go," he ordered encouragingly, "Has he spoken
to Benelli?"
I told Gagnon that, indeed, Benelli had phoned Mario
and had invited him to Florence.
"He plans on leaving for Florence in the morning," I
reported.
Gagnon and I entered Mario's room and found him at
his desk. Worry was written all over his face. He had been
writing in a notebook, which he closed as we sat down on
the only available chairs.
Rather than listen to the account of the Villot firing for
1 This is a line from Moliere’s Le Médecin malgré lui, and literally means: "... And so,
THAT'S why your daughter is mute!" It is the conclusion to a very long rigmarole
of absurd terminology by Sganarelle, the quack doctor, who pretends to provide a
medical diagnosis. Archbishop Gagnon loved to quote the line to express a whole
series of events, ending with, "There you have it, and so there you are!”
•44« MURDER INTHE33RD DEGREE
the fourth — or was it the fourteenth? — time, I excused

myself, went downstairs to the chapel and offered Mass,
which I had not yet done due to the unexpected bombshell.
When I returned to the third floor, forty minutes later, I was
in time to pick up a few straggling details in the Gagnon/
Marini question and answer session.
"Benelli's a kind man," Gagnon was saying, "no doubt
about it —but you can be sure that he didn't phone and
invite you to Florence as a simple act of kindness. No, he
wants to hear exactly what happened between you and
Villot. And he wants to hear it straight from your lips. It's
imperative that you tell him fully and truthfully what
transpired —not that you wouldn't tell him the truth,"
Gagnon shook his head to the negative, "I don't mean
that," he sought to clarify, "I mean, weigh your words
carefully. You know Benelli's memory. If he needs to quote
you —and he will— it will be word for word. You know
what I'm saying, Mario. You know him better than anyone.
It's imperative he hear the whole story," he repeated, "and
as soon as possible."
"I leave first thing tomorrow morning!" Mario seemed
to protest a bit, as if asking: How much quicker do you
want it?!
"God only knows how many versions of it he's already
heard," Gagnon sighed as he checked his watch, "And it
happened only a few hours ago! Lies and disinformation,
they're the enemy's labyrinth."
"Certo [For sure]/' mumbled Mario.
"May I add just one thing more?" the archbishop asked.
"Certainly."
"I know how upset you are. What they've done to you
is diabolical..." he adjusted his glasses, "Just do not be
surprised or, for heaven's sake, get angry, when Benelli
advises you to be patient and to wait; that there's nothing
A MIGHTY OAK FELLED •45*
he can say or do just now. When he tells you that, believe

him."
"I don't understand," I added my modest objection,
"What do you mean, there's nothing Benelli can do?"
"Not now; not at this point." Édouard Gagnon, pressed
his lips together tightly and waited a moment before
continuing, "The timing would be terribly wrong."
"That's why Villot waited until now — after Benelli was
long gone— to act," Mario explained to me.
"You might be more correct than you know," Gagnon
mused. He grinned slightly. "Yesterday I phoned the
Secretary of State with an update. My work on the
investigation is practically at an end. It just needs to be
typed and edited —of course, only I can do the editing."
He rolled his eyes and sighed, "There's nothing more to
add or subtract. The final draft should be ready to present
to the pope next month," he announced to the two of us.
"The cardinal seemed very pleased with the news... That's
what has me worried."
"I don't understand," I said.
The rather stern expression on Mario's face told me not
to interrupt the good man.
"He was too gleeful —too eager to accommodate me
— that is, until I qualified my request. I told him that I was
asking for a strictly private audience —'private,' as if to
say: 'sans Votre Eminence.'"
"You told him that?" I asked incredulously.
"Gne-au-gh!" Gagnon scoffed with a laugh, "Of course
not! I told you, 'as if!"' He said this to clarify the matter
for the benefit of the naïve one-half of his audience.
"How did he react to that?" Mario asked seriously.
"Displeased. Irritated," Gagnon said and, once again,
he grinned slightly.
This major news-flash instantaneously lifted Mario
Marini's spirits. (It didn't do me any harm, either!)

However, I knew not to push any further; not to ask those
questions that both Mario and I were anxious to know the
answers to: Were major changes in store for the Roman
Curia?
Many Vatican bureaucrats already acclaimed or blamed
Édouard Gagnon — depending on which side of the Masonic
line of demarcation the particular bureaucrat stood — for
Bishop Annibale Bugnini's suddenly "promotion" to Iran
(and Roman departure). That was two years ago, one year
into Gagnon's investigation. With Gagnon's final report
soon to be presented to the pope, all sorts of questions
filled my head. Would discipline and order be restored
in the Church? To her priests? To her religious? In her
seminaries? To her schools and universities? Would the
ancient liturgy be celebrated once again? Was the nefarious
reign of Cardinal Sebastiano Baggio about to end? If so,
might Baggio have room in his luggage to take Cardinal
Jean Villot with him?!
But our suffering friend had a very personal question
he wanted answered: When Gagnon met with the Holy
Father, alone, sans Villot or anyone else, would he explain
his unjust predicament to him? Still, Marini knew better
than to ask that of Gagnon right now. He would say or do
nothing without first consulting with Benelli... and that
would happen in just a matter of hours.
Archbishop Gagnon stood up, assured Mario of his
prayers, encouraged him and insisted he not despair. He
urged him to continue to be the strong man of unwavering
faith he knew him to be. He thought a moment and then
asked if he could drop by later with a letter for Mario to
deliver to Cardinal Benelli when he saw him?
"Consider it done," Mario Marini loudly agreed.
.47.
PURGATORIO IN DANTE’S
FLORENCE
February n, 1978
When Saturday dawned that eleventh day of February,

1978, in spite of the gray skies, the cold, and the rain, hope
had a place in the heart of Don Mario Marini. In no time, he
was on the Al (Naples to Milan) Highway; "Lautostrada del
Sole! [The Sunshine Highway!]" he pronounced its famous
nickname aloud. With the back and forth of windshield
wipers and the defrost fan set on hi, Mario didn't miss the
irony of the name, and for the first time in eighteen hours,
almost managed to smile.
After a long night of tossing and turning, of considering
things this way and that, of going over a list of the same
questions and coming up with the same non-answers,
of weighing the possible motives of a hundred possible
Judases, he got out of bed at four o'clock, more fatigued
than when he retired early the night before. He showered
and shaved, dressed, said Mass, finished his second cup
of coffee and was off for Florence by five-thirty.
He much preferred arriving in the Tuscan capital a
few hours early rather than remaining in bed one more
minute. Besides, arriving early would give him extra time
for prayer in the Duomo —before the invasion of tourists.
The extra time would also give him a chance to go over the
points he wanted to discuss with his friend and mentor,
Giovanni Cardinal Benelli. This luncheon date was crucial.
Having been so unceremoniously dismissed by none
other than the Vatican Secretary of State himself, Mario
Marini believed that his only hope for returning to the

pope's service and for justice lay with Giovanni Benelli.
All of the sudden, the rain and wind outside on this
stormy day combined with an inner sinking feeling in
Mario Marini. It was not so much about the public shame
of having been dismissed from the Holy See as from the
private satisfaction he was providing to enemies. How
delighted Baggio and Villot must be! Have they already
placed the phone call to Teheran so that Bugnini might
join in the merriment? Surely by now Baggio has phoned
his nephew and fellow Mason, Mario Pio Gaspari, whom
Marini had moved from his prestigious assignment
as Nuncio to Mexico to a much less important post in
non-Catholic Tokyo?
Finally, he arrived in Florence. He was early and had
plenty of free time before he was to meet with Cardinal
Benelli. He parked his car and entered the Duomo to pray.
Mario took his place in the very last pew of the
Castellani Chapel. He had finished his breviary and felt
he had gone the extra mile by tolerating, as a personally
imposed penance, the hordes of gum-chewing, camera-
toting heathens shuffling their way aimlessly through the
great cathedral, with its priceless works of art, without a
clue about what they were actually seeing. "What does
Charlie call them?" he mused, and then remembered:
"...'Useless son-of-riches!"' He made an admittedly
imperfect Act of Contrition for a few mental wanderings
and for several vengeful thoughts that flitted through his
mind during his meditation time. He stood, genuflected to
the Blessed Sacrament, and commenced the short saunter
to Via San Giovanni #3.
Just as the bells of the Duomo clanged the quarter hour
of noon, the ancient door opened wide enough for the
elderly porter to see who it was.
"Buongiorno," said the tall priest with the commanding
voice, "Don Mario Marini," he introduced himself, "I'm
PURGATORIO IN DANTE S FLORENCE •49.
a little early, I know, but I'm expected for twelve-thirty

lunch with His Eminence."
"Si, Don Marini," the old man acknowledged him with
a smile, "His Eminence expects you. Prego," he said with a
slight head bow and opened the door more fully.
He showed Mario to a tastefully elegant waiting room
and invited him to take a seat, which he did. Mario had
hardly sat down when he heard two rapid and very
familiar-sounding knuckle-knocks on solid oak. The door
opened and, with outstretched arms, Cardinal Giovanni
Benelli entered and walked straight to his guest. He put
both hands on Mario's broad shoulders and welcomed him
with the two kisses, left cheek, then right. "Mario... Mario,"
he called him by his first name, "Benvenuto, amico mio...
fratello mio; benvenuto!" [Welcome, my friend, my brother;
welcome!]
If Don Mario Marini ever cried in his entire adult life,
no one ever saw it, nor would he ever admit it. Just now,
however, as he closed his tired brown eyes, a small tear
from his right eye fell upon his mentor's shoulder.
Giovanni Benelli took a step back to get a good look at
his younger friend. It did not surprise him, yet it greatly
saddened him, to see the virile, robust man emotionally
reduced to a felled red oak.
Mario said nothing for a moment. He couldn't. Then he
handed his former boss an envelope. "Archbishop Gagnon,
Eminence." The cardinal opened it at once, speed-read it,
and put it back inside its envelope.
It might have been his rigorous diplomatic training;
perhaps the comfortable freedom that a certain degree of
distance between himself and others provided, but as much
as he authentically esteemed, admired and trusted Mario
Marini, Giovanni Benelli almost always called him by his
title, "Don Marini" or "Don Mario" — though recently, and
often enough, he would slip and called him by simply by
his first name. Nor had he ever given Mario permission
•50. MURDER INTHE33RD DEGREE
not to address him by his title. Only two years ago had
he invited Mario to address him with the familiar "tu"
rather than the formal "Lei. " As far as Giovanni Benelli was
concerned, that was close enough. It wasn't that he had
no feelings. He did, but they were not on public display.
On the way to the upstairs dining room, Mario's host
explained that there would be four other dinner guests
who had a previous invitation and whom he could not
"uninvite."
"Be just a little more patient," Benelli told him, "We'll
have the whole afternoon to talk after they leave."
The dining room was high-ceiling Renaissance at its
finest. The only change to it (and the entire house, for that
matter) was electricity, some seventy years ago. Those four
other guests the cardinal mentioned to Mario on the way
to diner included Padre Procopio Pazzi, an elderly Servite
hermit, and his benefactor-friends visiting from Pisa, the
Fagiolis: Riccardo Fagioli, a rotund, balding middle-aged
perfume manufacturer; his extremely talkative wife, Joanna;
and their mousey, socially awkward —and, thank God,
seemingly mute— twenty-eight-year-old son, Odisseo.
With a profound yet silent inward sigh, Mario Marini
took his place at long table. He had been so eager to speak
privately with Benelli, and now this. Who were these
people? Who cared who they were? And what was he
supposed to answer now when asked where he worked,
or to which parish he was assigned?
But Cardinal Benelli allayed those worries at once.
Immediately after Padre Procopio presented his entourage
to him, he introduced his guest to them: "Monsignor
Marini and I worked together for years in the Secretariat
of State. He's come to see for himself just how I'm faring
without his invaluable help," he said and, smiling, turned
to Mario, "Ah, for the simpler days of yore! Am I wrong,
Monsignore?"
PURGATORIO IN DANTE’S FLORENCE •51.
"His Eminence is never wrong," Mario answered

crisply.
"You can see why I keep him close at hand," the cardinal
joked good-naturedly, and then proceeded to bless the
table in Latin and invite everyone to be seated.
From that moment on, "Monsignor" Marini had
practically nothing to worry about, as Signora "Fanny"
Fagioli proceeded to talk, almost incessantly and practically
without interruption, from pasta to zuppa inglese. Hers was
a nonstop monologue, a virtual travelogue of the recent,
five-country, extravaganza tour she had just completed of
South America.
As she stopped to inhale, Cardinal Benelli jumped in to
ask her husband: "And how did you enjoy the excursion,
Signore?"
"Most unfortunately," Joanna Fagioli had gasped in
enough air in time to answer for him, "I had to cancel
Riccardo's reservations at the last minute."
"Gli affairi" [Business]/' Signore Fagioli raised his head
from the plate of pasta asciutta long enough to confirm it
as his wife dutifully pressed on: Equador, Peru, Bolivia,
Chile, Argentina...
"When will it end?" Mario asked himself, "Will it ever?"
Thirty minutes later, as the table was being cleared
of plates, Benelli cleared his voice: "Our good Padre
Procopio," he began, giving an approving nod to the
elderly religious and then fixing his gaze upon Signore
and Signora Fagioli, "sings the praises of the Fagioli Family
and of your remarkable magnanimity..." In midsentence,
Signora Fagioli stopped her monologue and smiled, as
humbly as she could manage, to receive the adulation
due her, ".. .and with good reason does he praise you. To
sponsor the building repairs and fresco restorations of the
Montesenario Sanctuary is a marvelous and monumental
commitment that could never be achieved without patrons
like you. Without you. Signore e Signora Fagioli, precious

works of art would be lost to future generations seeking
beauty, truth and goodness..."
"The next generation of 'useless sons-of-riches'," Mario
Marini thought to himself.
".. .Your generosity, Signore Riccardo e Signora Joanna,
will be remembered for generations to come. May the Good
Lord, in His own time and in His own way, repay your
kindness to us, to La Toscana, and to the Friar Servants of
Mary! Thank you, Padre Procopio, for bringing this fine
family here today and for doing us the honor of sharing
our daily bread."
The cardinal raised his wine glass and toasted the
couple and their son, and in particular the elderly priest.
"Short and sweet," Mario thought to himself and
modified Bonaparte to fit the occasion: "Efficacité, efficacité,
toujours efficacité. [Efficiency, efficiency, always efficiency.]"
With that, however, Padre Procopio —who, thanks
to Signora Fagioli, had remained silent throughout the
repast— grabbed hold of the table and yanked himself
up onto his feet. From the folds of his black habit, like
some medieval magician, the old man brought forth
several typewritten pages, cocked his head back to better
focus through his bifocals, and began: "In the year of Our
Lord, fifteen hundred and ninety-eight, the great maestro,
Alessandro Allori...
Pie Jesu Domine!! [Kindly Lord Jesus!!] Mario Marini
let out a silent scream, fifteen hundred and ninety-eight!!
We'll be here until Judgement Day — the late afternoon of
Judgement Day//"
He made eye contact with Benelli who, with one
microscopic frown, ordered him to endure it all with
patience.
Then, out of the clear blue, a miracle! Somewhere in
the second half of the seventeenth century, a coughing
PURGATORIO IN DANTE’S FLORENCE -53.
jag rendered Padre Procopio incapable of continuing one

decade further. Down to his toes, Mario Marini felt that
his exclamatory prayer had been heard and answered, and
peace returned to him —enough of it, at least, to help him
smile and bid a cordial adieu to the hermit and the three
Fagiolis as the porter reappeared to accompany the four
guests back to the main door of the palazzo.
Benelli grinned apologetically at his protégé from
Ravenna and, in one three-part sentence, explained the
unusual luncheon: "Padre Procopio is a friend of mine;
I've known him all my life; a faithful and holy priest." The
cardinal then took Mario by the arm and led him to the
adjacent parlor for caffé lungo and blessed privacy. Mario
took a cursory inventory of the room's bluish lace curtains,
the half-dead ivy plant on the sill, the grand piano in the
corner, and a garish collection of odds and ends, large and
small, but shiny-clean.
"Allora, caro Mario [Well, then, dear Mario]; we've always
spoken clearly and directly; man-to-man; friend-to-friend,"
the cardinal prefaced and went on to say, "I want that same
spirit between us, especially now."
"We share a unique history, Eminence, built on trust
and, let me say it, our love for the Church. I think we've
been honest and frank with each other right from the
beginning because we are both believing Catholics and,
as such, are not afraid of the truth. In fact, we live for, and
serve the Truth."
"Ben detto [Well said]," Benelli easily agreed, "Then,
suppose you tell me the truth of what occurred between
you and the Secretary of State —and by that, Mario, I do
not in the least mean to imply that you wouldn't tell me the
truth. What I'm asking you to do now is to describe exactly
what happened. No sentiment, please. Just the cold facts
of the matter. We can discuss your interpretation of those
facts after we've established what they are."
Now, as always when in Benelli's company, Marini
•54. MURDER INTHE 33RD DEGREE
knew he was in the presence of greatness. No one he had

ever known was as intelligent, as methodical, or as razor—
sharp and quick as Giovanni Benelli.
As Villot's dismissal of Mario Marini took place within
the confines of the Vatican Secretariat and lasted less than
ten minutes, there wasn't all that much to tell —nor, for
that matter, to have forgotten. Nonetheless, Benelli had
him repeat the story, from start to finish, three times, and
listened carefully for any added or subtracted details.
Marini —who knew how seriously Benelli treated all
such matters— coolly performed the triple-recital without
altering his volume or tone. The three narrations were
pronounced free of alterations, modifications or variations.
Cardinal Giovanni Benelli straightened up in his
oversized, overstuffed chair and looked pensively at
his former protégé seated across from him on the long
sofa. Benelli knew everything he needed to know, and
everything his nemesis, Cardinal Jean Villot, intended for
him to know.
From his years as Deputy Secretary of State, Giovanni
Benelli knew Jean Villot inside and out. He knew that
Villot's abhorrence of Marini was an extension of his
hatred for him. To attack and humiliate Mario Marini was
to attack and humiliate Giovanni Benelli. More alarming,
Villot's blatant maltreatment of Marini announced the dire
state of health, physical and psychological, of the Holy
Father. What happened to Mario Marini could not have
happened with the pope's knowledge. Mario was that
young man from Ravenna whose progress Paul VI had
followed closely from the very beginning; whose years of
study, room and board, clothing, even soap and toothpaste,
the pope himself paid for, year after year, with his own
money; the same exceptional man the pope personally
invited to collaborate with him in the Secretariat of State;
the same responsible, efficient and intelligent minutante the
pope inquired about with true paternal concern, when too
PURGATORIO IN DANTE S FLORENCE .55.
much time had passed without seeing or hearing from him.

No, Cardinal Giovanni Benelli felt it to the bone: things
were going from bad to worse in the Vatican. Given its
monarchical nature, when a papal administration draws to
a close the rats come out of hiding and the vultures begin
to circle. Paul VI's reign was nearing its end. The pope's
death was nearer than his friend and confidant, Giovanni
Benelli, had thought it was; nearer than he cared to think
about.
This meant, of course, that the final and very dangerous
mêlée was growing closer by the hour. The battle for the
Church's future would be colossal and brutal. Either the
Church would remain Catholic or —God forbid— be
usurped by the likes of Sebastiano Baggio and Jean Villot,
and their barbaric band of Masonic sympathizers and
Marxists!
Giovanni Benelli understood and was sympathetic to
Mario's plight, but he was far more concerned with the
impending war for the future of Christianity. He saw in the
pained expression on Mario's face that he, too, understood,
quite clearly, what was happening; both his own private
skirmish and that far greater conflict looming on the
ecclesiastical horizon.
"Yet you affixed your signature to this?" Benelli said
after reading a copy of the dismissal agreement. "May I
ask why?" he inquired with a sour scowl, "Because Villot
put it in front of you and said: Sign?" Benelli asked with
mounting frustration, "Why would you yield to such
a demand? After all your time in the Secretariat?! Did
you bother reading it before you signed?" he asked with
mounting annoyance - though the object of his anger was
not Mario Marini, but Cardinal Villot. Before it went any
further, Benelli caught himself and, at once, apologized
for raising his voice.
A little wounded, Mario said nothing.
The cardinal cleared his voice and looked him eye to

eye.
"Don Mario Marini," he began, as a bailiff might
summon a first witness to the stand, "Did you affix your
name to this sheet of paper freely? That is, did you sign it
of your own free and complete will, with no one and/or
no outside influence impeding your freedom in any way?"
"Well," began Mario Marini, "I
"Stop!" Giovanni Benelli ordered with outstretched
hand, palm-side toward Mario's face, "I will read aloud the
contents of this paper one more time. When I've finished,
you will then listen extra carefully to my next question. Do
I make myself perfectly clear?"
"Very clear," answered the slightly frazzled priest.
Benelli began reading aloud Mario's copy of the
resignation -the very same that Villot had him sign in
his presence. He read it slowly, deliberately. Naturally,
there was absolutely nothing wrong with the legal contents
or language of the document. As every Vatican document
is, this one, too, was airtight. Well, seemingly so. But that
was not the point.
When the Cardinal had finished reading the document,
he asked: "Now: how much time elapsed from the moment
His Eminence set this before you, the very first time you laid
your eyes on it, and the moment he demanded you sign it?"
Benelli asked and then returned to the more fundamental
question: "He did 'demand' your signature, did he not?
Three separate times, you told me that he 'ordered' you
to sign it."
"The Secretary of State did not ask me to sign it," Mario
spoke without a moment's hesitation, "He ordered me to
sign."
"Exactly," he affirmed it, "And with whom have you
spoken about this?"
"Archbishop Gagnon," he said at once and somewhat
defensively. "When we spoke by phone yesterday you

suggested I speak with him."
"Yes, of course. You'd want to speak with Archbishop
Gagnon," the cardinal agreed, and, suddenly remembering,
reached into his pocket for the letter Mario Marini handed
him earlier, "Who else?" he asked.
"Zannoni heard that I'd been dismissed - as I'm sure
everyone else in the Vatican has heard by now." Mario said
and offered, "Zannoni, good man and friend that he is,
showed up at once, in person, at my front door. I couldn't
very well not talk ..."
"Monsignor Zannoni is a saint and a scholar," the
cardinal interrupted him, "Wise beyond his years. Time
and again, he's proven himself the good and faithful friend
to both of us," he nodded at Mario, "A great man to have
on your side."
"And Murr," Marini added.
"Murr?"
"Don Carlo," Mario said, "Charlie; the American," he
said a bit louder, "Lago di Bracciano?"
"Si, si, si," quickly Benelli pulled the name from among
the thousands in his mental Rolodex, "Yes. He lives with
you. And you trust him, no doubt?"
"I do."
"Then insist with him that he says nothing, that he speaks
with no one about you or your current situation. Tell him
your future depends on it —because it does."
"I'll talk with him as soon as I get back."
"And a canon lawyer? Have you someone in mind?"
"I waited to speak with you, first, Eminence. If you
think I've got a case..."
"I do," Benelli affirmed.
"Then," Mario shrugged, "Monsignor Lobina? Giuseppe
Lobina. Professor of Law at the Lateran University."
"E brusco [He's abrupt]/' was the first thing out of the
cardinal's mouth, "rosco, un po' maleducato [crude, a little
rude]" he summed him up quite neatly, "Yes, I know
Lobina..." he said more pensively, "He might be just the
man for the job... Yes, good. Abrupt, yes; abrupt, crude
and rude..." he said, still weighing things in his mind,"...
and the man knows the law, inside and out! Abrupt, crude
and rude," he repeated the formula, "And isn't that what
we're looking for in a lawyer? Of course, it is!"
For his part, Mario Marini was quietly elated to hear his
spiritual "Rock of Gibraltar" speaking this way. This was,
bar none, the most difficult problem he had ever faced in
his adult life. And he wasn't alone; Benelli was speaking in
the first-person plural! "And isn't that what we're looking
for?!"
"Eccolo [There you have it!]" he exclaimed, "A hard
headed, irreverent, miscreant of a Sardinian lawyer for
our shrewdly sophisticated elder brother from Lyons! Yes,
of course! Giuseppe Lobina. Contact him and engage him.
If he's hesitant to go up against the Vatican Secretary of
State, tell him the Archbishop of Florence recommends
him and only him for the job. You may also tell him that,
if he judges it wise —never tell a lawyer or a Sardinian
what he should do," Benelli cautioned with a mischievous
smirk that both northern Italians understood beyond
mere words, "that if he wishes/' he repeated, "I will act as
your prime character witness; that I was the first to have
interviewed and interrogated you on the question of free
will, your complete free will —or, in your case, the lack
of it— in signing Secretary Villot's prepared statement of
resignation. Tell him that only one thing can trump the
Church herself, and that's a completely free, well-formed,
individual conscience."
"I will contact Lobina as soon as I get home," Mario
agreed, "Thank you, Eminence. With all my heart, I thank
you."
PURGATORIO IN DANTE’S FLORENCE .59.
"Dare I ask?" Benelli prefaced, "Funds, my friend?" he

asked outright, "How do you stand financially? The truth
now, Mario. This is no time for false pride."
Mario Marini was visibly uncomfortable. He was a
proud man, and on certain matters very private —this
was particularly true when it came to money. "I live from
paycheck to paycheck, Eminence. I haven't given much
thought to money... Not because it's not an issue. It is.
It's just that, having been dismissed, dismissed just like
that," he said with a snap of the fingers, "dismissed from
the Holy See... Well, the truth is, my head's still spinning.
I haven't had time enough or presence of mind enough
to deal with anything, let alone money... I'd hate like the
devil to have to ask my parents for help. I haven't told
them yet... You and the Holy Father know my family
situation better than anyone in the world. If it hadn't
had been for the pope's generosity and your own, well, I
can't imagine where I'd be today... I can only imagine my
father's reaction when he learns I've been expelled from
the Vatican! Gesù mio!" he exclaimed and shot an evocative
glance heavenward. "There's a merchant here in Florence.
I've known the good man and his kind wife for years. God
has been very good to them. Let me see what I can do. But
you:" he pointed at Mario, "as soon as you get back to
Rome, make an appointment with Lobina. Tell him your
situation and insist that his fees and honorarium be those
of a true friend and brother priest! Tell him I said so!"
"I will, Eminence."
"And let me know."
"I will."
The cardinal closed his eyes a moment. "May I also give
you another piece of advice?"
"I'm thankful for anything you have to tell me."
"Do not leave Rome," Benelli said, as if it were a
commandment, "They expect you to leave. They expect
you to flee in shame. Do not!" he insisted and slapped

the heavy padded arm of his chair. "Stay right where you
are... You'll need a job, of course... I can help you out for
the time being. You'll keep that to yourself, understand?"
"Thank you. Yes, understood."
"But you'll have to find serious employment. You
know, of course, that this matter will take time to resolve."
"How much time?" Mario asked and, attentively,
hopefully, listened to the answer.
"You've worked for the Vatican all these years and you
ask me, how much time?" he gave a chuckle and shook his
head, "Who can say? A year? Two years? Then again," he
shrugged, "the world sometimes changes overnight..." he
said and remained quiet a moment.
Mario knew what he was thinking: Circumstances
certainly could change suddenly —especially with a
captain at the helm as frail and sickly as the present pope.
Besides Pope Paul VI himself and his personal physician,
Renato Buzzonetti, no one knew better than Cardinal
Giovanni Benelli just how rapidly the pope's health was
declining. They often spoke by phone. The pope's health
was such an issue eight months ago that the Holy Father
himself decided to call the extraordinary consistory and
make Benelli a cardinal. He wanted his longtime and
faithful aide-de-camp, his closest friend on earth, guaranteed
a loud voice and weighty vote in the next papal election -
even though that meant living the rest of his days without
Benelli's wise counsel and his formidable strength of
character to bolster him.
"I wish I could tell you how long this will take to
resolve, Don Mario," Cardinal Benelli said sincerely, "The
simple truth is that I don't know. No one does. It would
be irresponsible of me to pretend I did, and to give you
false hope."
"I understand," Mario answered.
PURGATORIO IN DANTE'S FLORENCE •61*
The cardinal lifted his head slightly higher. "Now, to

practical matters: you'll need a paying job. No doubt, your
case is headed for the supreme tribunal of the Church, and
as such, a tremendous amount of patience will be required
of you. Are you really up to it?"
'TH find a job," Mario pretended to be sure of himself.
"I was speaking more about patience than employment,"
the cardinal laughed. "You weren't exactly the most patient
man on staff when you worked for me," he said and smiled.
"I'll learn patience," Marini assured him.
"Very well," he smiled and nodded in agreement with
Marini's willingness and attitude, "If you are amenable
"In all my life, I've never been in a situation to make
me more amenable," Mario admitted with sadness.
"Va bene [All right, then]." On Monday, Monday
morning, I shall place a call to Padre Giacomo Poletti.
Director of the Liceo, L'Instituto Massimiliano Massimo, in
EUR. Good man, Poletti," Benelli went on, "A Jesuit and
a Catholic," he flashed a derisive grin to Marini, "at least
he was when last we spoke. We were students together at
the Gregorian," he said and then asked: "Have you ever
taught, Don Mario?"
"Theology. For three years, Eminence," he nodded
positively, "in Mexico."
"Madonnina Santa!" he said with hands together and
pointed upwards, "El Seminario Regional de Chihuahua," he
pronounced the institute's name with gravitas and in his
best Spanish accent to compensate for the clumsy gaffe.
"Asi es [There you are]," Mario commended him.
A knock on the door announced the housekeeper, a
fifty-something woman pushing a wooden kitchen cart
with a silver tray, an espresso pot, two demitasse cups,
sugar, a plate of biscotti, a small bottle of Centerbe and two
digestif glasses.
"Grazie, Signora Maria," the cardinal said with a smile.
"I biscotti, Eminenza," she proudly announced, "son'freschi,

sono!" [The biscotti, Your Eminence, they're really fresh!"]
"Yes, thank you," he said again as she left the room
and closed the door behind her.
"So, God willing, if everything goes as we have
spoken," the cardinal continued, "we'll have solved some
immediate problems," he said and, on the fingers of his
right hand, starting with his thumb, he began to enumerate
them: "First, you must convince Lawyer Lobina to take
your case."
"Do I have your explicit permission to tell him that
you're willing to be a character witness?" asked Mario
Marini.
"Permission? No, no, Don Mario; I insist you let him
know. If he accepts the case —and he will— speak to him
freely about today's conversation between us."
"Thank you, Eminence."
"Secondly," his index finger joined his thumb, "You're
to remain right where you are in Rome. And thirdly,"
his middle finger joined the other two, "if Padre Poletti
answers my call, you should have a job and an adequate
income. Molto bene. Yes, very, very good," Giovanni Benelli
smiled with satisfaction.
Mario Marini took in a very deep breath and exhaled
slowly. For the first time in twenty-four hours, he felt at
ease.
As if reassuring him that all would be well, Giovanni
Benelli purposely ceased all discussion of the dismissal
matter and spoke with him, instead, about a number of
far less important subjects.
Having put his guest well at ease, Cardinal Benelli
reopened Archbishop Gagnon's envelope, retrieved the
note and gave it a far more cautious second reading.
"This really is a marvelous day!" he exclaimed, "The
investigation of the Roman Curia is completed," the
cardinal announced to Marini, "Did you know that? Did

Archbishop Gagnon tell you?"
"I knew he was very close to finishing."
"Well, he will ask Villot to schedule a private audience
for him with the Holy Father. Hopefully, next week. And
now the Holy Father will be able to act on the Visitor's
recommendations. I won't bother to write him back," he
said, "You'll see him tonight, when you get back to Rome,
won't you?"
"I hope to," Mario answered.
"Then, please tell him that Benelli says: Deo gratins! And
now, now that he's finished, let him know that he is free
to speak with me about this or anything else in the world,
anytime he wishes... Deo gratias!" again he said.
Taking two small cards and a pen from his vest pocket,
Benelli wrote on the cards.
"One for Gagnon, one for you," he said and handed
them both to Marini, "When I am in Florence, you'll find
me at this number from eight p.m. to ten p.m. I alone
answer this phone."
"I'll give it to him the moment I see him."
When they had finished their coffee, Mario followed
the cardinal's lead and stood up to leave.
"...One last word, caro Mario," he smiled warmly at
his once-and-again protégé: "To endure and complete the
journey you're beginning will require a virtue which —
and you'll pardon me for saying this - you are not very
adept at nor particularly fond of," he said, and patted his
friend on the shoulder, "I hinted at it a moment ago. We
call this virtue patience. Your case will not be resolved in
a matter of weeks or months. You know how slowly the
Church moves on these matters. To finish victorious will
demand the patience of a saint. Learn to be patient, Mario.
Patience."
>64' MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
THE FIRST DELIVERY ATTEMPT •65.
THE FIRST DELIVERY

ATTEMPT
May 16,1978
On an early spring morning, Thursday, March 16,1978,

on Via Mario Fani, not far from Sacred Heart University
Hospital, a band of Marxist terrorists opened fire on six
men in two cars. The Red Brigade terrorists murdered two
bodyguards and three policemen who were escorting Aldo
Moro to work. Aldo Moro, former Prime Minister of Italy
and actual President of the Christian Democratic Party,
was kidnapped by the Marxists and held hostage.
To say that Italy, and Rome in particular, was in a
prolonged state of chaos and nervous tension would be
gross understatement.
And while the seemingly endless tragedy took a
tremendous toll on everyone of good will, Italian and
non-Italian alike, the horrific kidnapping, murders of five
innocent men, and ongoing torture of Aldo Moro most
deeply wounded his closest friend in the world: Giovanni
Battista Montini, Pope Paul VI.
The pope spent countless hours of his days and nights
doing everything possible to negotiate for his friend's
freedom. More than once, he offered his own life in
exchange for that of his friend's. The offers were soundly
and insultingly rejected.
For nearly two months Italy was not Italy, and the
normal sweetness of Italian life had turned sour and bitter.
Fifty-four days into the dark national ordeal, Moro's
bullet-riddled body was found in the trunk of a Renault

4, on Via Caetani, half way between Christian Democratic
and Italian Communist Party headquarters in downtown
Rome.
The Italian people were in a state of total shock.
The personal toll this took on the Moro Family could
never be measured.
Aldo Moro's brutal death hit Pope Paul VI harder than
almost anything had ever hit him in life.
Within the Vatican, the word "depression" was a
term to be avoided assiduously. Rather, for a period of
approximately 143 days —from Moro's abduction to
Paul's death— there were some good days among the
majority of bad ones — those closest to the Holy Father
noted that he was suffering from "melancholia." At times,
his audiences, public and private, were cancelled due to a
severe lack of energy, chest colds, and the ever-worsening
and painful arthrosis. But, worst of all, the pontiff openly
and increasingly spoke about death —his own.
It was Tuesday, May 16,1978.
After three previously-scheduled private audiences
between the Roman Pontiff and his Apostolic Visitor had
been suddenly cancelled, it was "almost a sure thing," said
Deputy Secretary of State Agostino Casaroli in yesterday's
phone call to Archbishop Gagnon, "that tomorrow's
audience will happen."
Of course, the Deputy apologized profusely for the
previous cancellations. That was, after all, part of his job.
But, he honestly offered in his own defense, it was beyond
his powers to guarantee the Pope's good health and his
ability to hold audiences.
At any rate, as of late yesterday evening, Casaroli
seemed sure that the Pope was up to receiving Archbishop
Édouard Gagnon this morning.
It was nine o'clock and I was growing anxious.
THE FIRST DELIVERY ATTEMPT .67.
Giovanni Battista Montini, Pope Paul VI
Before I got to the door of the house chapel, I saw a

light on in the sacristy and heard a dresser drawer open
and close. I peeked into the sacristy, saw a long black veil,
and knew I had the wrong archbishop.
"Sabah Alkhyr, Siedna [Good morning, Your Excellency]," I
greeted Archbishop Hilarion Capucci in my paltry Arabic,
then switched to French, "Have you seen Archbishop
Gagnon?"
.68. MURDER INTHE 33RD DEGREE
"I have," said the smiling Syrian, pointing to the

next-door chapel.
Faster than you could say "Shukran" I was at the chapel
door, opened it, and found the Canadian prelate deep in
prayer.
I cleared my throat to get his attention and inhaled the
air sweet with the scent of frankincense.
"Excellency," I whispered loudly, "I'm in the lobby,"
and gave the crystal of my wrist watch two quick finger
taps, "three past nine," I added respectfully, genuflected,
and closed the door behind me.
As uncomfortable as I was interrupting the archbishop's
communication with the Lord, I couldn't risk him arriving
late for the all-important meeting with the Lord's Vicar
on earth!
Walking to the lobby, I thought to myself: "It's here,
finally here... The day we've been waiting for since ...
since forever! Gagnon's years of work and sleepless nights
weren't in vain... Finally, the Church will be purged of
the parasites infecting her for decades. She'll have her life
back... After the crucifixion, the resurrection!"
I looked through the thick glass in the porter's office
at the clock on the wall: seven minutes after nine. While I
anxiously checked the clock against my watch, Archbishop
Édouard Gagnon and Mario Marini turned the comer and
came toward me. Archbishop Gagnon was properly attired
for a private papal audience: purple-piped black cassock,
silver pectoral cross, purple zucchetto. Mario Marini, also
in his clerics and carrying his own black book bag, was
on his way to EUR. Thanks to Cardinal Benelli, he was
now teaching religion at the Jesuit Liceo while waiting for
his suit against Cardinal Jean Villot to be taken up by the
Signatura Apostolica, the Vatican's Supreme Court.
I reached for the black leather book bag Gagnon held by
its handles, but he politely rejected my offer to carry it for
him. The explosive contents would remain in his custody

another fifty minutes, at which time they would be handed
over, personally, directly, and exclusively to His Holiness,
the pope. He didn't say that. He didn't have to. I read it
clearly in the half scowl and pursed lips, and in the curt,
"Thank you. No."
"Godspeed, my friend," Marini said as he shook
Gagnon's hand, "May your meeting surpass all our
expectations."
"God willing," the archbishop responded, "His
Holiness will be so motivated as to act, and act swiftly."
"Gentlemen," I interrupted the well-wishing, "if we
don't get a move on, no one will be acting one way or the
other!"
"Yes," the archbishop agreed.
"Monsignore," Mario had a final request, "If the
opportunity presents itself..."
"Patience, Mario," Gagnon raised his free hand slightly
so that he would not ask what he was about to ask, "There's
a time and a place for everything. Today's venue presents
neither. Your case is in very competent hands," he said
and then added with a bit of justifiable irritation in his
tone and look, "You know how crucial today's meeting
is to the very life of the Church. To introduce a matter of
personal concern, a thing foreign to the discussion, to veer
off course even momentarily..." he pursed his thin lips
again and shook his head to the negative.
"Es-tn prêt. Père ? " he looked at me and, curiously, asked
in French.
"Am I ready?" I questioned the question and
exaggerated my expression of surprise.
"Allons-y alors! [Then, let's get a move on!] I can't afford
to be late today," he added with a small self-deprecating
smile.
Nodding a "Good-morning" to the Syrian agents in
the van parked near the house gates [who were watching
the Israelis, who were watching Hilarion Capucci and
everyone else who entered or exited Fratelli Bandiera 19],
again I checked my watch. It was nine-sixteen when the
archbishop and I were actually seated in his Fiat and ready
for take-off. At nine-sixteen and twenty seconds, I hit the
pedal and we took off faster than Trastevere pickpockets
on a stolen Vespa!
At Porta San Pancrazio, Gagnon suggested we pray the
rosary for "a successful and productive audience with the
Pope," to which I added: "And for smooth-flowing traffic,
up to and including the Cor tile San Damaso." He agreed
and took out the beads.
Though the shorter and more direct route to the Vatican
entrance at the Holy Office was Via delle Fornaci, I decided
to tackle the series of sharp and hairpin turns along the
less trafficked (at this time of day) Viale delle Mura Aurelie.
Respectfully, I invited the archbishop to switch his rosary
from right to left hand, and to hold tight to the ceiling strap
"until we've landed, and the plane has come to a complete
stop at the gate."
I followed Gagnon's lead and repeated the prayers with
my mouth, but I could not keep my mind from wandering.
It wasn't the driving or the road that distracted me, but the
realization that I was playing a part, infinitesimal as it may
be, in an event of paramount importance: I was driving
Archbishop Édouard Gagnon to the most important
meeting of his life and, potentially, the most consequential
of Pope Paul VI's fifteen-year pontificate.
I knew very well what this morning meant to the
great man seated next to me. After years of intense
labor, investigations, research, interviews, organizing,
and one-on-one encounters with hundreds of people,
mostly men, mostly clerics —some, venerable saints and
scholars; others, some of the craftiest demons walking
the earth— Archbishop Édouard Gagnon now held
concrete answers to Pope Paul's enigmatic and disturbing

rhetorical question. I glanced over at the strong man; his
eyes closed, lost in prayer. I glanced at the briefcase on
his lap, knowing it contained the precise ammunition the
pontiff commissioned of him. Yes, the unassuming French-
Canadian had identified quite a number of those nefarious
"cracks in the wall" — the ones through which "the smoke
of Satan had entered," and ivas continuing to enter, "the
temple of God." Today the historical report on the state of
the Catholic Church's central Roman government would be
placed before the Holy Father, set squarely upon the desk
in his private study, with Archbishop Édouard Gagnon at
his side to guide him through the hundreds of pages and
answer any questions he may have.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was
something else troubling Édouard Gagnon this morning
— something more than the rapidly approaching two-hour
meeting with the pontiff.
Never mind the ransacking of his private rooms, the
office burglaries, even the death threats. That was in the
past. No, it was the present that was troubling Édouard
Gagnon. Today's highly anticipated meeting with the pope
had taken weeks to schedule; once it had been postponed
indefinitely; twice the Secretary of State, Cardinal Jean
Villot, cancelled the meeting the day before stating simply
that the Holy Father was "indisposed."
Undoubtedly, a significant number of Roman Curia
members were dreading today's encounter between the
Pontiff and the Canadian Archbishop. Everyone knew
about it. No one talked about anything else. I knew that,
at this precise moment, any number of people would
give everything to have the black leather bag at arm's
reach from me thrown into a rip-roaring "bonfire of the
atrocities" in Saint Peter's Square, and the ashes strewn
into the murky waters of the Tiber! Principal among the
very apprehensive men, and the direct cause of a series
of delays and postponements of this morning's private

audience was none other than the Cardinal Jean Villot.
Three years ago, when the investigation was announced,
Secretary of State Villot remarked candidly that such an
examination of the Church's central government was a
senseless "chasse aux sorcières" [witch-hunt], the seeds of
which had been planted in the mind of an aged pontiff by
"LeMachiavel Toscan" [The Tuscan Machiavelli,] then Deputy
Secretary of the Vatican State, now Cardinal Archbishop
of Florence, Giovanni Benelli.
We had finished the rosary by the time we reached
the Holy Office entrance. The Swiss Guards saluted and
waved us through. By now (figuratively) half of Rome and
(literally) everyone with anything to do with the Vatican
knew Archbishop Édouard Gagnon at first sight. As we
came around the basilica's apse, moments before entering
the archways, Gagnon turned to me: "I know I'm asking
a lot, Don Carlo, but could I further impose upon you this
morning?"
"Whatever it is, Excellency, consider it done," I
answered like a Prussian footman.
"Thank you," he said with a bit of a tired expression
on his pale face, "I appreciate all your help. Could you
wait for me?"
"Not come back for you at noon?" I questioned, as that
was the original plan.
"I'll understand if you can't," he began almost
apologetically.
"No, no, no!" I protested, "I just wanted to make sure I
understood," I said at once, "Of course I'll wait for you. I'll
wait the full two hours —and if he invites you to stay for
pranzo, know that I'll be right here when you're finished.
Don't give it a second thought!"
Another Swiss Guard motioned us to pass under the
archway and another still, on the other side of the arch,
motioned us into the wide-open courtyard, still wet from

the rain but bathed now in morning sunlight.
I pulled up next to the four steps to the elevator, got
out of the archbishop's Fiat, went around to open the
passenger-door and discovered that, out of nowhere, a
young monsignor from the papal household had appeared
and beaten me to it.
The tall, elegant priest began to escort the archbishop
toward the elevator. By the way Gagnon shook his head,
I could see that he absolutely refused to let him carry the
leather book bag. Then, suddenly, Gagnon stopped, turned
and walked back to me, still standing at the driver's door
until he entered the lift.
With what could only be described as a wistful smile,
he faced me and whispered: "Pray for me."
"You can count on it, Excellency," I answered, bent
and kissed his ring.
For years, as much as Édouard Gagnon looked forward
to completing this delicate assignment, he dreaded the
thought of this very moment. For an entire lifetime he had
done his very best "to judge not lest ye be judged." Yet,
in less than twenty minutes, the highest moral authority
on earth would bid him act as judge, jury and executioner
of a number of priests, bishops, and two of the highest-
ranking cardinals in the Sacred College. Nevertheless, it
had to be done. And, better than anyone else on earth,
Édouard Gagnon knew that if the One, Holy, Catholic
and Apostolic Church, founded by Jesus Christ Himself
was ever to regain her dignity, strength and true sense of
mission, she had to be liberated from some highly placed
dignitaries in the Roman Curia.
Why the Lord should choose his shoulders to lay this
heavy burden upon was a mystery Édouard Joseph Gagnon
would never understand. Yet it was he whom Providence
elected, and he was resolved to give Providence his all.
The elevator brought the archbishop and his

accompanying monsignor to the top floor of the Apostolic
Palace. As the elevator door opened, there, waiting for
them, was the gaunt, balding, and bespectacled career
diplomat, Archbishop Agostino Casaroli. He had been
handpicked by Cardinal Jean Villot to replace the former
thorn-in-his-side of a Deputy Secretary of State, now
Archbishop of Florence, His Eminence, Cardinal Giovanni
Benelli.
Édouard Gagnon was surprised to see Archbishop
Casaroli, but he knew to take all the lavished extra attentions
as part of the pontifical protocol. Casaroli thanked the
young monsignor for accompanying Archbishop Gagnon
this far and, with a nod, dismissed him.
"How good it is to see you once again," Casaroli cooed
as he escorted Gagnon down the high polished marble
corridor, under the tall vaulted ceilings, frescoed by
Renaissance masters, that led to the papal apartments.
All of this, everything below him, above him,
surrounding him, all of it, was meant to overwhelm and
humble the beholder. Yet, today, all of it was wasted on the
man from Montreal. He was there strictly on business; not
to ponder the glories of the Renaissance, nor to be diverted
by choreographed displays of protocol and flattery. No one
and no thing would take from the French-Canadian's mind
what was permanently filed therein: the complete mental
copy of the very documentation dutifully organized and
safe within his black leather bag.
They arrived at the final set of double doors in the long
corridor. Two Swiss Guards in full dress uniform snapped
to attention as Archbishop Casaroli reached for the bronze
lever and opened the door.
"Prego, Eccellenza," he said and stepped aside that
Gagnon enter first.
At the far end of the long elegant room sat the radiant
figure of the Roman Pontiff, His Holiness, Pope Paul VI.
The pope removed his reading glasses with one hand

and with the other gestured welcome to his singularly
important guest.
Archbishop Édouard Joseph Gagnon's face beamed
like the mariner-son returned home from sea and about to
embrace his father. He approached the white-robed Vicar
of Christ with his gaze so fixed on him that he took no note
of the tall lanky figure looming in the shadows. Cardinal-
Secretary of State, Jean Villot stood directly beneath the
sword that Antoniazzo Romano's brush painted into the
hand of the Apostle to the Gentiles. His masterpiece, The
Virgin and Child between Saint Peter and Paul and the Twelve
Magistrates of the Rota, hung high and nobly on the wall
behind the pontiff's desk. The Cardinal Secretary of State
acknowledged the Archbishop-Apostolic Visitor with
a nod but remained silent and stoically stationed at the
pope's right hand.
Pope Paul looked pleased to see his specially-appointed
Visitor. Édouard Gagnon took the Pope's hand, bowed and
in a gesture of obeisance, and kissed the fisherman's ring.
"Welcome, venerable and faithful brother," the Pope
greeted him in perfect French.
"Thank you, Most Holy Father, for receiving me.
How happy I am to know that you are feeling better," he
said, more for the benefit of Villot and Casaroli, who had
cancelled and rescheduled this meeting several times in
the past two months due, they claimed, to the pope's poor
health.
"I wish also to convey my condolences and offer my
prayers to Your Holiness for the loss of your beloved
friend, Prime Minister Moro."
"We thank you, Excellency," the Pope said quietly and
took in an unsteady breath of air, "We appreciate your
prayers for his eternal rest, and for the spiritual strength
of Aldo's family —Good Lord, what a cross they've been
given ...And your prayers for us, Excellency, they are
Virgin and Child by Antoniazzo Romano
needed now more than ever," he said again with a more

somber face, a bit shakier voice and, it seemed, the inability
to speak for the moment.
While Édouard Gagnon waited respectfully for the pope
to regain his composure, he began to think that the good
man's bouts with depression were more than cheap Vatican
rumor. It became apparent that the kidnapping, torture and
execution-style death of his dear friend, Aldo Moro, was
the most probable explanation for the cancellation of his

three scheduled audiences with Pope Paul.
This insight did nothing to lessen his mistrust of
Cardinal Villot or Archbishop Casaroli, but it did help him
feel surer of his cause and of himself.
"The years weigh heavy upon us," the pope asserted
with mild chagrin, "But, yes, God be thanked, we are
feeling better as of late," he smiled, "Please, dear brother,
be seated," he said and pointed to the chair on the opposite
side of the desk, facing him directly.
Édouard Gagnon took his seat and straightaway placed
his black book bag upon his lap.
"It pleases us greatly to learn that you have completed
the august assignment we requested of you last year."
The Canadian made no attempt to hide his surprise.
"Begging your pardon," he respectfully interrupted,
"It was three years ago that Your Holiness assigned me to
this investigation."
"Three years?"
"Yes, Holy Father."
Visibly perturbed, Cardinal Villot broke his silence:
"With so many pressing matters to deal with daily," the
Frenchman took a mildly chastising tone, "all of them
matters of paramount importance, surely His Excellency
can understand how His Holiness could lose track of time."
The Canadian cleared his throat purposefully and then
looked intensely into the Pontiff's eyes:
"Holy Father, each of the three times I petitioned the
Secretary of State to schedule this 'paramount' and very
delicate meeting, I insisted that this initial encounter be
between Your Holiness and me. Alone. Private; that we
be left alone and able to speak with complete freedom."
Standing slightly behind and to the right of Gagnon,
Agostino Casaroli did not take his eyes off the man he
hoped one day (very soon) to replace: Jean Villot, who

in turn did not take his scrutinizing gaze off Édouard
Joseph Gagnon, who, though hearing every word Villot
was saying, did not avert his eyes from the pontiff.
"It is the Holy Father's wish," Cardinal Villot assumed
the right to inform Gagnon, "that Deputy Casaroli and
I be present at this meeting." Villot put a hand on the
high-backed chair of the Pope and continued, "Given
the extremely delicate nature of the Apostolic Visitation
you conducted, and what one might assume to be some
extremely delicate findings, today's meeting cannot
proceed without witnesses."
The pope was following everything perfectly well and
easily detected the tension mounting between Villot and
Gagnon, but said nothing.
"When first you asked me to accept this mission, almost
three years ago," Gagnon repeated the timeline and,
ignoring Villot, continued speaking only to Pope Paul,
"I requested complete freedom to conduct the enquiry
as I saw fit, and that I be answerable to you alone. Your
Holiness agreed." Gagnon smiled and gave the pope a
small nod of gratitude, "I ask now that the second part of
our agreement be honored. I wish to speak with you, and
you alone, Holy Father, concerning some," he cleared his
throat again, "disturbing 'findings'... After I've explained
them to Your Holiness, the course of action you choose will
be entirely your own. My work here will be finished. But,
before God, I must be sure that you yourself, Holy Father,
are made aware of these things; that you hear them from
me, clearly and unfiltered, and are free to ask me anything
pertaining to them."
Pope Paul VI closed his weary eyes and pinched the
bridge of his nose with two fingers. Reopening his eyes,
but barely, he turned to his right, to Cardinal Jean Villot
and said in an audible whisper: "Leave us, please."
"But Holy Father," Villot protested, "Such official
business — such an audience," he sputtered, "Witnesses

— It requires witnesses and assistance..."
"Your generous concern is appreciated," the pontiff
answered with restraint, "We will speak with His Excellency
as he requested and, as it seems, we agreed. Thank you," he
said and turned to look at his fuming Secretary of State, and
then to his confused Deputy-Secretary, Agostino Casaroli,
still standing next to Gagnon.
Casaroli made a slight head bow. Villot did not. They
both walked to the door behind and to the left of the
pontiff, the door leading to the Borgia Apartments, and
left the great room.
The pope raised his right hand to gesture that his guest
should keep silent a moment.
A final click of the door handle, and the much sharper
clicking together of guardsman's heels from the other side
of the closed door, caused the archbishop to smile a "thank
you" to the pope for honoring his "request" so completely.
The pontiff leaned forward and rested both forearms on
the desktop. He closed his eyes, then inhaled very deeply
and exhaled very slowly before opening them again. He
appeared a little more at ease without the cardinal and the
archbishop hovering about and peering over his shoulders.
At ease, but exhausted.
"Sans phis tarder [Withoutfurther ado], " Édouard Gagnon
said to himself as he set his book bag upon the desk. From
it he retrieved one substantial and two smaller tomes: the
chronological history of the Visitation, the supplemental
documentation to verify the most serious accusations, and
a summary of the Apostolic Visitation of the Roman Curia.
"With all respect, Holy Father," Gagnon prefaced his
report, "I would not dishonor Cardinal Giovanni Benelli
by mentioning him in front of Secretary Villot or Deputy
Casaroli, his replacement."
"Compréhensible," [Understandable] the Pope answered,
"...C'est compréhensible/' he repeated, and immediately

stopped the faint curl on his lips from advancing to a smile,
"... On dit que l'envie naît de la peur, " [It is said that envy is bom
offear] he said, subtly referring to Villot's long-standing
resentment of Benelli.
"Holy Father," Gagnon switched his tone to a more
formal one, "the day you summoned me and asked me
to accept this assignment, then-Deputy Secretary of State
Benelli was also present. That meeting was not just between
the two of us, Holy Father, it was actually between the
three of us."
"Yes," the Pope remembered.
"I have never spoken with our dear friend, Cardinal
Benelli, since he proposed me to you for this very
mission. Several weeks ago, I wrote to inform him that
the investigation had been concluded, and that I looked
forward to delivering the results to Your Holiness.
"I tell you this, Most Holy Father, to assure you that
the Visitation was thorough, that confidentiality was of
the highest priority, and that I did my best to be fair and
impartial from beginning to end.
"Here are the results," he said, turning the thickest
volume to face the pope, "along with verifying
documentation and a summary of the entire investigation,"
he concluded as he turned the two smaller files.
Pope Paul put on his reading glasses. He opened the
summary volume and scanned the page listing its contents.
"There are many matters that need to be addressed
immediately, Holy Father. All of them important; some of
them threaten the very life of the Church."
"In your expert opinion, Excellency, which are most
urgent? Which is the most urgent?" he asked and looked
over his glasses awaiting the answer.
"Page four of the summation," he answered at once,
"Cardinal Sebastiano Baggio..." he pronounced the name
distinctly but quietly. Gagnon drew another deep breath

and continued: ".. .In 1972, Secretary of State, Cardinal Jean
Villot," Gagnon also pronounced that name more quietly
this time around, "à lutter farouchement [fought tooth and
nail] for this man - one of his closest friends and political
allies - to be named Prefect of the Sacred Congregation
for Bishops! Holy Father!" the Canadian archbishop
exclaimed and, looking the pontiff straight in the eyes,
without uttering one single word, inaudibly shouted the
rhetorical: What, in God's name, were you thinking!?
At once, the archbishop knew that this audacious slip
of the tongue was a mistake, but today —after three long
years holding back his anger over the disastrous state of
the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church - Édouard
Gagnon would make known exactly what his investigation
revealed and was eating away at him like a cancer.
"A Freemason," Gagnon continued, "A Freemason
naming every new bishop in the world! And every new
archbishop, given a metropolitan See, and many of them
guaranteed a cardinal's hat and a vote in the next papal
election! Your Holiness will forgive me for saying this,
but a Freemason is orchestrating the next conclave. For
all intents and purposes, Cardinal Baggio is naming your
successor! And, judging from the lengthy interview he just
gave to Le Monde/' the archbishop paused a moment to
show the pope the correct page in the summary report,
"... His Eminence, this same cardinal, is his own favored
candidate for pope!"
The pontiff sat upright in his white half-throne chair.
As much as he wished he could resent what the Canadian
was saying, there was no escaping the truth of the matter
and the awareness of this showed on his face.
"Shortly before he died," Gagnon continued, "Cardinal
Staffa asked to speak with me. He told me that in 1972, and
again in 1975, in his capacity as Prefect of the Supreme
Tribunal of the Apostolic Signatura he and Cardinal Oddi
came to speak with Your Holiness about this very man

and about Archbishop Annibale Bugnini. They supplied
Your Holiness with evidentiary documentation to verify
these extremely serious accusations. I include copies of the
same in my report. They indicated that both men were and,
I presume, still are. Freemasons with powerful Masonic
connections —and that many of those connections, Holy
Father, lead straight to the Institute for the Works of
Religion [the Vatican Bank]."
"That is indeed true;" the Pope admitted, "Cardinals
Staffa and Oddi came to us with the accusations, accusations
that we turned over to Archbishop Benelli to investigate."
"And, may I ask what Archbishop Benelli's investigation
found?" Gagnon inquired, already having been told the
whole story by Giovanni Benelli himself, three years ago.
"Benelli concluded that the reports concerning
Archbishop Bugnini were well-founded... On the basis
of which we decided to send His Excellency to Iran as our
nuncio. That was our Deputy's suggestion, and we agreed
with it. That matter has been dealt with. We see no need
to revisit it."
Édouard Gagnon removed his glasses and placed
them on the desk. With his left hand he covered his eyes
to hide the mounting frustration showing on his face. He
put thumb and middle finger on his temples and pressed
hard on them twice.
"Archbishop Bugnini, yes. But the accusations made
against His Eminence, Cardinal Baggio, not so," the pope
said.
"Not so?" Gagnon asked. He put his glasses back on
and straightened up: "Again, Holy Father, with all due
respect; is Your Holiness saying that the accusations against
Cardinal Baggio were proved to be untrue, or were not true
enough? I'm confused."
"At the time it was brought to our attention, we were
Archbishop Annibale Bagnini

assured by Secretary of State Villot that the accusations

against Cardinal Baggio were unsubstantiated, and that the
evidence presented was insufficient," the pope answered.
"Soon thereafter, we spoke personally with Cardinal
Baggio. We remember vividly that he denied the charges
emphatically and very vociferously," the pope plainly
and clearly recalled, "very vociferously," he repeated,
"'Calumny/ he called them... It turned uglier still... His
Eminence called for the dismissal of Archbishop Benelli...
He demanded it. Of course, we would never entertain such
a thing. Where would we be without Giovanni Benelli?"
he asked. Again, he removed his glasses.
"Indeed, Holy Father; where would we be?"
The pope said nothing and Gagnon respected his silence
by remaining as silent. Then, something very strange
happened. Very slowly, Pope Paul put both hands on the
two smaller tomes that Gagnon had placed before him and
turned them around. When they were both facing Gagnon,
the Pope put one atop the other, and then lifted both and
set them upon the major report. He then pushed the set
toward the seated Apostolic Visitor.
"Holy Father?" the baffled Visitor called for an
explanation.
Pope Paul, however, remained completely silent. He
turned his gaze away from the books and again sighed.
The faintest look of delight came to his pale face — mostly
likely, Gagnon assumed, caused by the bright ray of
sunshine just breaking through the clouds and entering
the tall library windows. It bathed the dark great room
with welcome light.
Gagnon sat absolutely still. It was so quiet that, for the
first time, he heard the desk clock marking the seconds. The
old pope was thinking, and Gagnon would not interrupt.
When, after a long half a minute had passed, the pontiff
straightened up again, reached for the glass of water,
drank, and cleared his throat as if preparing to make an

announcement.
"Dear brother," he began, his sad and tired eyes focused
on Édouard Gagnon directly, "...You have before you a
tired old man... who stands at the threshold of death and
prepares himself, these days, to meet his Creator... and to
answer for his many sins and faults..."
Archbishop Gagnon's eyes widened. Was he about to
be asked to hear the pope's confession?! This was not in
the script! Where was he going with this?
The pontiff took his eyes off the Visitor and began
looking upward, not at the decorated ceiling, but somehow
above and beyond it. He looked half lost, half blessed.
"Holy Father?" Gagnon called to him.
The pope looked again at his Apostolic Visitor. He put
his hands on the three volumes of documents and pushed
them even closer to their author, "We beg you to guard all
of this, your invaluable research; keep it in your custody.
Keep it safe and sound. Do not leave it here with us... Do
not leave it here," he repeated, "When we cease to be the
great burden we have become to this sacred office, you will
please take this entire matter to our younger and stronger
successor..."
"But, Your Holiness," Gagnon exclaimed, unwilling
to believe his ears, "What are you saying?! These matters
we're speaking about," he said and struck the three tomes
three times with his knuckles, "and hundreds of others
can't wait another day!" Exasperated, he continued: "A
Freemason names our bishops! The Vatican Bank is on the
verge of collapse! The rector of the Lateran University is
laundering millions through it every year! And on and on
and on. Your own Secretary of State, Holy Father, is your
greatest adversary!"
Gagnon stopped talking long enough to control his
anger over these and a putrid world of other evils his

investigation uncovered.
The pope said nothing.
"Holy Father, please tell me you're not serious,"
Gagnon recommenced, "All of this just cannot simply
be ignored —and left for someone else to deal with—
someone, somewhere, sometime in the distant future!"
"The proximate future, not the remote," the tired old
man corrected, "We stand at the threshold of this world
and the next. You'll not be made to wait long, Excellency,"
he declared this last part of his statement with the verve
of an Old Testament prophet. Gagnon saw that he did
not speak these words lightly - neither did they seem to
weigh on him.
"We ask that you keep this invaluable information safe
and to yourself... We charge you to explain everything you
have right there, everything you tried to explain to us this
morning — to our successor."
Édouard Gagnon simply could not believe his ears. Was
this a nightmare? Some bizarre and horrible dream from
which he could not awake? He himself had asked that no
witnesses be present for this meeting and now, suddenly,
he felt the urge to go after Villot and Casaroli and drag
them back to tell him if this was real or not!
The bell from Saint Peter's campanile rang twice to
mark ten-thirty. No, he wasn't dreaming. Yes, this was for
real. And yes, the audience was about to end. But before
it did, though his head was spinning, Édouard Gagnon
had enough of his wits about him to make one final plea:
"If what Your Holiness says is truly what you want
done," he soberly began, "ainsi soit-il" [so be it.] However..."
Gagnon noticed the pope struggling to push back his
chair. As, more likely than not, he was about to attempt
rising and standing on his own, Gagnon stood up at once
and went to help him. Slowly the old man rose, and with
THE FIRST DELIVERY ATTEMPT •87»
a very pained expression on his pale face, stood, but bent

over - with Archbishop Gagnon right next to him, just in
case.
Eye to eye with the pontiff, Gagnon read between the
lines and furrows on the old man's face: vulnerability,
fatigue, pain, uncertainty, weakness.
"Holy Father," Gagnon said point blank, "I wish to ask
a very special favor of you."
"Ask."
"Give me permission to share the contents of the
Visitation with our most trusted mutual friend and
confidant - with Cardinal Giovanni Benelli. Will you grant
me that?"
Immediately the pontiff smiled.
"Willingly, dear brother, willingly. You have our
permission to share these matters with Giovanni... You
very well may be saving yourself time and effort," he
added.
"Holy Father?" the Canadian was confused.
A mischievous smile began to form on his lips,
"Explaining the results of your Visitation to the Cardinal
of Florence today might mean not having to explain them
again to our successor," he smiled more broadly... "Yes,
Excellency, Giovanni Benelli has our complete confidence.
Most assuredly, you have our permission. Speak with
him."
"And your blessing, Most Holy Father?" Gagnon
entreated and kneeling, receive the benediction. With one
hand on the desk to help himself up, he stood and saw that
the pope was blessing the three volumes as well.
"Édouard Gagnon," the pontiff spoke his name and
looked directly into the man's strong eyes.
"Holy Father?"
"For all your labors, for all we have put you through,
and all you've endured. Our Lord and Savior and His
Blessed Mother thank you; the Church universal thanks
you; and from the bottom of his heart, Peter [the pope
himself] thanks you... Éduardo Gagnon, venerabile fratello
nostro: Arrivederci in Paradiso... "
Archbishop Édouard Gagnon collected his materials.
".. .Adieu, Très Saint Père, " he answered the pope's final
goodbye, then turned and left the his presence and the
Apostolic Palace.
It was almost a quarter to eleven when a Swiss Guard's
shrill whistle let me know that Archbishop Édouard
Gagnon was at the elevator platform in the San Damaso
Courtyard.
Knowing that he had gone into his meeting with three
years' worth of material and only two hours in which to
present it all, when he showed up now, with an hour and
fifteen minutes to spare, I realized that something had gone
very wrong.
I tossed the book I'd been reading onto the back seat,
started the car and pulled up to the courtyard's four marble
steps, exactly where I had dropped off the archbishop less
than an hour ago.
Even from a distance of thirty feet I could see the serious
look on my friend's usually cheerful visage. What's more,
his book bag looked as full and heavy exiting the papal
interview as when he entered it.
I ran around to open the passenger door.
"Todo bien?" [Everything OK?] I asked as he approached.
"I've had better mornings —and better outcomes," he
answered dryly in Spanish and nothing more.
The archbishop's demeanor was strange: he wasn't
exactly angiy, but he was obviously perturbed, and deeply
so.
The silence, as they say, was deafening, and I respected
it for three full minutes —the time it took me to clear the
gates at the Holy Office and get into the flow of Roman
traffic.
"Did you want quiet all the way home?" I asked, to
entice him to speak.
"Forgive me, Don Carlo, but a headache hit me - just as
I got into the elevator," he said with his eyes closed.
"Should I stop at a pharmacy?"
"No," he answered, "the sooner we get home, the
better."
As much as it killed me not to ask, "Were you able to
speak to the pope about Mario Marini?" I did not. I knew
much better. I'd never seen this good and always positive
man in such a state.
That evening, the three of us, Archbishop Gagnon, Don
Mario Marini and I, met in Gagnon's room. Our host looked
quite a bit better than he had during his ride home from the
Vatican. Right away, I understood why. About two hours
ago, Archbishop Gagnon spoke by phone with the one
and only person on earth who could set his spinning mind
at ease: Cardinal Giovanni Benelli. They had agreed to
meet in person, Friday evening, in some undisclosed place
outside Rome - I assumed Lago di Bracciano. Nonetheless,
Gagnon did not say where, nor did he ask me to drive
him, nor did I offer to. The meeting would be completely
private.
To ease Mario Marini's mind —though the news was
not the positive report hoped for— Gagnon immediately
told him that he had not had the opportunity to speak with
the pope about his dismissal from the Secretariat of State
by Jean Villot.
"You'll just have to believe me," Gagnon lamented, "it
was neither the time nor the place. Regardless, it will be
seen to," he assured Mario, "that I promise. Patience," he
told him, "You have to learn what I'm having to relearn:"
he said, "patience and forbearance."
Cortile San Damaso
Gagnon then prefaced what he was about to tell Mario

and me about his audience with Pope Paul.
"While I am not now - nor, for that matter, will I ever
be - at liberty to discuss specifics of the investigation itself,"
he then turned and looked me straight in the eyes: "nor is
anyone who helped with any part of the investigation free
to divulge things he may have seen or heard." Point made,
he went on: "I can tell the two of you about this morning's
audience."
Archbishop Gagnon recounted all he could about

the audience, beginning with his "reverentially polite"
reminder to the Supreme Pontiff that today's audience
—like the first one, three years ago, when the pope and
then-Deputy Benelli asked him to conduct the Apostolic
Visitation of the Roman Curia— was to be private. It was
meant for the pope and him alone. He then described the
pope's "invitation" to Cardinal Villot and Archbishop
Casaroli that they leave the study.
When the archbishop finished reporting the abruptly-
terminated meeting, Mario Marini asked a few more
questions on what he immediately called "the expulsion
of the diplomat scoundrels."
I, on the other hand, was thoroughly intrigued with the
pontiff's post-mortem instructions. "So, you're supposed
to wait until he dies?! And then go and explain everything
to the new pope!?" I asked incredulously. And, without
looking before I leapt, added: "And what are you supposed
to do if you die first?"
Many things I say are intentionally absurd, and they
often caught Gagnon by surprise. He laughed when
surprised, and I loved his laughter; it was innocent and
executed with real glee.
Mario Marini began to reprimand me for my audacious
lack of tact, when Édouard Gagnon began to chuckle: "My
first thought, exactly!"
Then I asked seriously: "Is the pope ill? Is it something
serious?"
"He's as healthy as a horse!" Mario chimed in.
"How old is he?" I asked.
"Eighty," answered Gagnon.
"Yes," Mario said, "But today's eighty isn't yesterday's
eighty. The way he's cared for, Papa Montini could live to
be a hundred!" And then Mario, a bit unsure of himself,
asked Gagnon: "How did he look to you?"
"Not close to death? Right?" I asked.

"He's complex, our Holy Father, the pope," Gagnon
answered after a little thought, "He's a man, I think, who
would love to make everyone in the world happy - and
keep everyone in the world happy - but he's learned how
impossible that is. All I can tell you is that I've never known
him to speak anything but the truth —regardless of the
consequences," he mused, without explicit reference to
Humanae Vitae, the pope's hugely controversial 1968
encyclical on Human Life.
"Then, you believe him when he says he's not long for
this world?" I interrupted.
"That is what the good man told me, and I pass it along
to you for what it's worth," he smiled. "Again, I say: I've
never known him not to tell the truth."
The three of us spoke for over an hour before retiring.
Mario Marini remained frustrated that Gagnon had not
found an opportunity to discuss his plight with the pontiff.
As for Gagnon, it did him good to have spoken with Benelli,
and with Mario and me. We really had formed a society of
friends, a priestly society of friends, and were proving to
be very good for one another's morale.
That Friday evening, Archbishop Édouard Gagnon
and Cardinal Giovanni Benelli met for an "extremely
quiet" (not to say "clandestine") in-depth discussion at
the Chalet on Lago di Bracciano. Archbishop Gagnon left our
well-guarded residence with a full and heavy book bag
and, unlike his frustrating visit with the Pope, returned
later that night with the same book bag, now empty and
very much lighter.
The next morning, Saturday morning, after Gagnon,
Marini and I concelebrated Mass in the house chapel,
we took our caffé and cometti outside, in the far corner of
the courtyard, so we could talk with no chance of being
overheard, and as an extra precaution, we conversed in
Spanish.
This time Gagnon arrived bearing good news —in

particular, good news for Mario Marini.
"Benelli is on top of things," said Gagnon taking a
healthy swallow of his caffè-latte, "...he's following your
case closely and is helping you in ways you're unaware of."
"For example," Mario pushed the envelope.
"For example: a witness in your defense came forth
from the Secretariat, a Villot underling who shall remain
nameless. This good man is willing to testify that Villot
waited, on purpose, for Benelli to leave the Vatican to
dismiss you; that Villot wanted to make it impossible
for you to be rescued by Benelli and, of course, through
Benelli, the pope. The 'mystery-monsignor' heard this from
Villot himself and swears to it. His sworn statement should
be in the hands of your lawyer, Giuseppe Lobina, by the
middle of next week. Cardinal Benelli insists you remain
calm and patient; everything in your case is proceeding as
it should and as it must. Like everything else in life: it's a
question of time.
"Gio-van-ni Ben-el-li: Now there would be a pope!"
said Mario Marini.
"Could that actually happen?" I wondered aloud.
"I believe that His Holiness's self-prophecy will come
to pass sooner rather than later," said Archbishop Édouard
Gagnon somberly, "... and as for papal elections," he
shooed a bee away from his cornetto, "...in such matters,
anything is possible."
"Sooner rather than later..." I repeated to myself.
.95.
THE POPE’S PROPHECY

FULFILLED
August 6,1978
Do not make the mistake of calling Tepatitlan a town.

It is a city located about an hour west of Guadalajara.
What's more, Tepatitlan is the capital of a region proudly
known as Los Altos [The Highlands] of Jalisco. Should you
ever be looking for the heart of Mexico, it is there you will
find it beating strongly and nobly. That is certainly how
it struck me when first I visited it in 1978. That summer,
my archbishop, Francisco Javier Nuno y Guerrero, called
me to Mexico for the months of July and August. He
believed it would benefit me greatly to know the people
and diocese for which I had been ordained. At the time, I
was not pleased by my archbishop's decision - especially
since he had agreed to "donate" me to the service of the
Holy See, which meant I would not be living or working
in Mexico. In retrospect, it was one of the best things that
ever happened to me, and it would have been ludicrous
for the good archbishop to have acted otherwise.
In the early evening of August sixth, the Feast of the
Transfiguration, dear Sister Petra phoned from the retreat
house where I was rooming to the nearby Sagrada Familia
Parish where I was helping out. Immediately, and in a
very sad tone of voice, she asked if I had heard the news.
"...Oh, Padre Carlosl The Holy Father —he has died,
Padre," she announced in that soft, sad and somber voice
usually reserved for the loss of family members?
Like everyone else, I knew that the pope had been in
very poor health recently, nonetheless, the news of his

death took me by surprise, and my throat seemed to close
for a panicky moment. But there was more.
"And, Padre; a Monsignor just phoned. From Italy."
"From Rome?" I asked, hoping to narrow it down.
"No, Padre; he said he was calling from ... Rwanda??"
sister pronounced uncertainly.
"Ravenna?" I made a wild guess.
"Yes," she answered, "That's what he said: Ravenna! He
wants that you return his call — he said, "at once," Padre"
she said and preceded to read me the phone number
the "Rwandan" gave her, "... He said to call immediately
because it's already late at night there."
For two days straight I tried to contact Mario in Ravenna.
But, in central Mexico the "tiempo de lluvias" [rainy season]
had not yet ended, and Tepatitlán and surrounding areas
had just endured a torrential rain, thunder and lightning
storm the likes of which would not soon be forgotten, and
in the wake of which great sectors of Los Altos had been
left without electricity and telephone service.
I tried again, on the third day after he had called me, to
phone him back. By my calculations it was eight or nine at
night where he was. In a back office of the Sagrada Familia,
I sat down on the wobbly metal chair at the wobbly metal
desk. The incessant humming of the fluorescent ceiling
lights filled the long periods of silence as I waited and
waited. Finally, after five decades of the rosary, I made
contact with an international operator who, after another
fifteen minutes -- the Sorrowful Mysteries, this time — was
able to get an international line.
For obvious reasons, my Dad's nickname for Teléfonos
de México came to mind and, while listening carefully for
the long waited ring, I quietly repeated it: "Taco Bell."
Although only two months had passed since Marini,
Gagnon and I were together, it seemed longer than a year.
THE POPE’S PROPHECY FULFILLED .97«
I didn't just miss the two of them; I missed the three of us.
I missed after-Mass breakfasts with Archbishop Capucci. I
missed classes at the Gregorian and philosophy discussions
with Professors Navone and Becker. I missed the drives up
Via Trionfale and the visits with Madre Pascalina. I missed
the banter and joking with Naldo and Silvio in between
work at the Information Office. Stuck in the middle of
Mexico — and at a time like this! — made me Rome-sick
and left me frustrated.
Even now, days after learning that Pope Paul had died,
I felt like doing something I had not done in years: find a
room I could lock myself in alone, sit down in a comer, and
cry. Of course, I wouldn't actually do such a thing. A tear
shed now would be one shed out of self-pity, and nothing
is more unmanly than a man completely self-absorbed.
"Charlie?" Mario answered on the second ring.
It was so good to hear his booming voice again. So
good!
Mario gave me a quick rimdown on his situation.
As everyone who can does, in August he escaped the
brutal heat of Rome, and made a hasty retreat home, to
pleasantly cooler Ravenna and the spectacular Adriatic. It
had been his first summer without a vacation since he was
a boy in post WWII years. For two weeks every summer, he
and his lifelong friend Padre Andres Baeza would meet in
Texas or Arizona or Colorado and explore some different
part of the American Southwest. This summer, however,
Benelli encouraged him to stay close to Rome - and what
Benelli said, Marini did. With the pope's death, it seemed,
once again, that Benelli knew what he was talking about.
"I leave tomorrow for Rome —if you can believe that,"
Mario reported and huffed.
"Why?" I asked.
"You did hear that the pope died, no?" he asked with
pointed sarcasm.
"The pope died!? Good God, Mario! When!?" I

exclaimed even more sarcastically.
"Humph," he grunted, "The funeral is Saturday, and
then begin the preparations for the conclave! Why am I
going back to Rome?" he huffed again at the banality of
my question, "Because "El Mariscal" wants me there, that's
why."
When left with no other communications option but
the telephone —a contrivance he never fully trusted—
Mario spoke —or tried to speak— in code. He'd slip up
occasionally, but discretion was the idea. For example: the
Pope was usually El Patron [The Boss]; Giovanni Benelli
was always El Mariscal [The Marshall]; Édouard Gagnon
was El Colombiano [The Colombian]; Monsignore Guglielmo
Zannoni was II Polento [po'lento - a little slow]; his lawyer,
Monsignor Giuseppe Lobina was "El Lobo" [The Wolf], and
when it wasn't just "Charlie," I was El Gringo or Gringito.
Not surprisingly, he christened his nemesis, the Frenchman
Cardinal Villot, "René-Rana" [René the Frog, the Spanish name
for Kermit the Frog].
Any new personality who might enter into the
conversation was renamed by Mario on the spot. Often
enough, I was left to figure out the identity of this one or
that one, solely on a contextual basis - at times challenging;
usually funny; always interesting.
"Doesn't he know you don't attend state functions?" I
toyed with him just a little.
"Nor will I attend this one," he answered abruptly,
"I've said my prayers for the repose of the good man's
soul, and will continue to say Masses for him. I owe him
more than I could ever pay back... He paid my way through
seminary when my own parents rejected me; he saw to
my doctoral studies at the Gregorian University and my
residence at the Coliegio Lombardo; he entrusted me with
a coveted position and gave me an office across the hall
from his own... But, as much as I owe him, I'm not going
THE POPE’S PROPHECY FULFILLED .99.
anywhere near that place [the Vatican] until my case is

resolved."
"I understand," I answered honestly, "But 'El Mariscal'
wants you in Rome, now? Why?"
"Don't be naïve! What do you think he wants to talk
about, gardening!? Horse racing?! He wants to talk to me
and 'El Colombiano, ' about upcoming events, of course! It
took a day and a half of phone calls to locate 'El Colombiano!'
He's back home in Montreal, visiting family!" he said, as
if there were something wrong with that.
"You mean, like you are right now?" I could not help
but interject.
"I'm not on the other side of the world; I don't need
days to rearrange my travel plans and plane reservations!
I board a train, and in five or six hours I'm back in Rome."
Mario was seriously apprehensive about the upcoming
papal election — seriously apprehensive, which explained
some of his brusqueness whenever the subject was
broached. I had watched his apprehension increase this
past year — even before his dismissal.
The "next conclave" evoked in him a dread similar to
Cardinal Dino Staffa's own. Mario and Staffa had been
close friends for years. Last year, shortly before his death,
Staffa spoke long and hard with Mario Marini. He then
spoke with Édouard Gagnon, in his capacity as Apostolic
Visitor to the Curia, to share his severe trepidation. "My
recurring nightmare," he said to both men, on separate
occasions, "is having to pledge obedience to the new
pontiff, and having to kiss the Fisherman's Ring on the
hand of the first Freemason Pope!"
Mario described Staffa to me as literally trembling
when he pronounced those words. And Cardinal Dino
Staffa was no slouch!
"Pray," Mario almost shouted, "like you've never
prayed before; pray that 'El Mariscal' reaches the number
• 100. MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
needed!" In typical Marini fashion, he added: "And be

specific when you address heaven. I've always taught you
the importance of succinctness and specificity in prayer,"
he stated and by continuing to talk, robbed me of the
chance to say that this was the very first time I had heard
him make such a pronouncement. "Seventy-five! That's
the exact number Benelli needs!" he said, having broken
his own rule about not mentioning "El Mariscal's" name in
public or by phone, "Seventy-five!" he repeated.
"But his age, Mario," I interpolated, "He's awfully
young," I foolishly brought up Benelli's mere fifty-seven
years on planet earth, "and 'El Colombiano' says 'El Mariscal'
is too much a realist not to know this."
"You're really a defeatist, you know that? 'Young' is
exactly what we need!" he shouted so that I moved the
receiver at a safer distance from my ear, "Catholic, young,
a proper and substantial pair of balls," he enunciated each
word clearly "and saint enough to stop 'Lucifer-incarnate'
dead in his tracks!"
He didn't actually mention "Sebastiano Baggio." He
didn't have to; the satanic reference sufficed.
"And, for your information, Gringito, Mastai-Ferretti
was only fifty-four!" Mario averred, trumping my
"Benelli's awfully young" card with a "Pio Nono [Pope
Pius IX] was-even-three-years-younger" trick of his own.
"But what if... " I began to ask but immediately regretted
it - not just for what Benelli's loss would mean for the
Church, but for what it would mean for Mario Marini,
whose ongoing case against "René" kept him suspended
in a virtual limbo.
To my surprise, Marini answered my unfinished
question coolly: "No wartime general worth his salt goes
into battle without an alternate plan of attack." He laughed
quietly, "Our general [Benelli] has two. "
"Two? Who?!" I asked excitedly —as if Mario Marini
THE POPE’S PROPHECY FULFILLED • 101.
would pronounce their names in a phone call! And via

international cable, to boot!
"Remember Saint Malachy?" he asked.
He referred to the eleventh-century Irish saint who
wrote an apocryphal description of all the popes, from
his day until the last day.
"I thought you didn't believe in those things," I rebuffed.
"Old wives' tales!" he mockingly affirmed what I
thought, "But that's not the point. You asked a question;
I'll give you an answer."
"OK."
"Find the title your Irish saint gives the next pope, then
'cut the moon in half.'"
"What? What in the blazes are you talking about?"
He laughed and continued the teasing: "Listen: cut
'moon' in half;" he said it this time without the definite
article, "and you'll have an easy clue to the man's identity.
You're smart," he snickered, "you told me once, you'd
make a good detective. Well, I just gave you the key clue,
'Columbo!'" He taunted me with (of all people) Peter
Falk! ("Columbo" was the only RAI-TV program Mario
ever watched — and only then on rare occasions.) "The
alternative to that is a foreigner. Not likely," he dismissed
it as too absurd. "No, if it isn't himself, it will be his friend,
the half-moon."
"If 'El Mariscal' does win, that would be the end of your
case against 'René'."
"Ha!" he grunted a low laugh, "You mean, it would be
the end of 'René' altogether! He would send that arrogant
Frenchman packing before the white smoke cleared the
sky!"
"One way or another, he'll win," I said to encourage
my slightly anxious friend, "Let's pray that God's will be
done!"
"And may God's will be our will!" Marini's bass voice

boomed the rather ambiguous theological finale across the
transatlantic cables.
Then came the all-too- familiar click indicating that the
conversation had ended. Mario Marini was never one for
long goodbyes —in fact, he had no time for "goodbyes,"
of any real length.
"Sleep well, mi querido capitdn!" I bade him good night.
After early Mass the following morning, I walked
downtown, to the portales, and stopped at La Farmacia
Relampago. The pharmacist saw me buying a copy of
El Excelsior. He introduced himself, Alfonso Martin del
Campo, and invited me to his back office where I could
have "a serious place to read and a serious cup of coffee
to help stomach the news." I willingly accepted and he
showed me to his desk.
There it was, on page three; a complete list of the eligible
cardinal electors. And there he was: BENELLI, Giovanni;
Age 57; Archbishop of Florence.
But, only when I saw it in print did Mario's teasing "key
clue" click: LUCIANI, Albino; Age 66; Patriarch of Venice.
I said it out loud: "LU-ciani; mezza luna [half the moon]:
LU-na)l I smiled more broadly when I learned that LUciani,
former President of the Italian Episcopal Conference, was
bom in BelZzmo. That cinched it.
I left the pharmacy determined to spend all my extra
time from that moment until I heard "Habemus Papam!"
storming heaven in prayer.
At least that was my intention, until later that afternoon
when —ironically, during prayer and meditation— I
received another significant phone call. This one was from
my archbishop, Don Francisco Javier Nuno y Guererro
ordering me to report, as soon as possible, to the cathedral
in nearby San Juan de los Lagos, where more than one
million pilgrims, from as far away as Mexico City, were
THE POPE’S PROPHECY FULFILLED • 103.
about to descend and pay filial respects to the Virgin of

San Juan on her feast day. August 15, the Solemnity of the
Assumption." And," the soft-spoken archbishop declared:
"with a handful of marvelous exceptions, all one million
of them are in serious need of confession."
For seven oppressively hot days, from the ninth to the
fifteenth of August, 1978, mine was the wooden middle seat
in an old and worn confessional for twelve to sixteen hours
a day, while the parade of unwashed humanity, most of
whom had been walking for weeks, entered the cathedral
confines by the hundreds of thousands bent on getting a
closer view of the diminutive Blessed Virgin Mary.
When that physically, emotionally, and spiritually
draining week came to a blessed end I returned to
Tepatitlan, went immediately to my room in the retreat
house, and collapsed on my bed and remained there for
fourteen uninterrupted hours before resuming work at the
Sagrada Familia Parish.
I woke up the next morning knowing that the final
countdown had begun and that soon Gagnon, Marini,
and Zannoni would meet together. They certainly would
be keeping close tabs on all things Vatican —especially
my friend, Mario Marini. Had Benelli already spoken
with Gagnon, I wondered? Had he spoken with Mario?
If "the will of God" was not ours, what kind of a man
was "Half-Moon" Albino Luciani? That name... It had a
sort of Mafioso ring to it. I smiled at myself imagining
the Cardinal Patriarch of Venice being related to Lucky
Luciano!
On the Farmacia Relampago wall calendar I had
thumbtacked next to the empty bookcase in my small
office, I began to "X" off the days; ten more until the voting
commenced in the Sistine Chapel, beneath the terrible,
penetrating, and all-knowing gaze of Michelangelo's Christ
of the Last Judgement.
THE SMILING POPE .105.
THE SMILING POPE

August 26,1978
As much as I wanted to be in Saint Peter's Square for

the September 3rd coronation of the new pope, changing my
Pan Am flight proved impossible. Correction: most likely
a sign of things to come, the new pontiff had changed
the "coronation" to the much less monarchical and much
more democratic-sounding "inauguration." Either way, I
missed it.
Likewise, the new pontiff made a name for himself by
combining the names of his two immediate predecessors,
John XXIII and Paul VI. Soon after his historic election
in the Sistine Chapel, from the Loggia of the Blessings
Cardinal Pericles Felici introduced him to the world (and
the world to him) as "Joannes Paulus".
After my "Mexican summer," and before returning to
Rome, I went home to visit family and friends for a week. So,
rather than standing in Saint Peter's Square and witnessing
the papal "inauguration" in person, I was sitting in our
Saint Paul, Minnesota living room and following the event
via satellite — which, thanks to central air conditioning, all
the "comforts of home," and the miracle of television and
cameras with close-focus lenses, afforded me a spectacular
view of everything and saved me from a two-hour roasting
under the merciless Roman sun.
And, yes, it goes without saying that the new pope was
the very man Mario Marini (so invaluably assisted by Saint
• 106« MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
Malachy!) cryptically informed me it would be during our

transatlantic conversation.
I didn't usually take a taxi into Rome, but after a
three-hour delay at JFK, an awful flight, and the hour-and-
a-half "spaghetti rigamarole" of clearing passport and
customs at Leonardo Da Vinci Airport, I was too exhausted
to deal with luggage and a standing-room-only bus ride
into Stazione Termini.
The taxi pulled up to the front gate of the Lebanese
Residence. I paid the cabbie and walked to the trunk for
my luggage, from where I saw, parked directly across the
street, the brown Mercedes from the Syrian Embassy. I
gave an informal salute to the familiar man behind the
wheel. His young "co-pilot," evidently an apprentice-spy,
stared at me coldly, but Mohammed smiled and gave me a
thumbs-up, no-need-to-frisk, welcome home. This was the
first time since Archbishop Hilarion Capucci had arrived
that I did not see the Israelis' van. Still, the modern brick
building was in one piece, standing firmly, which meant
that Capucci was at home and safe and sound.
It was just before noon when I opened the front door
to Fratelli Bandiera number 19. Immediately I was hit with
the sensational aromas of too much garlic, too much onion,
mint, and roasting lamb —all of it without the faintest
hint of simmering tomato sauce that could easily trick
the famished traveler into thinking that something Italian
awaited him. But, no! Sor Olga knew I was arriving today
and had prepared my Middle Eastern favorites: laham
mishwe with freshly crushed fount and chopped tabbouleh.
God love her!
Leaving my largest suitcase in the porter's office, I
practically ran to the staircase and took the marble steps
two at a time. It was Saturday and I knew Mario would be
home. Between the second and third floors I called out in
Romanesco: "A Do' Mar-i-eu!" [Hey, Don Mario!]
The second from the last door of the corridor flew open:
"Charlie! Charlie Murr!" came the deep bass welcome.
As we gave each other a long and hard Mexican abrazo,
the door next to Mario's opened: "Bienvenido, Don Carlo!"
Archbishop Édouard Gagnon exclaimed with the broadest,
warmest smile, "This house has been too quiet without
you!" he joked, "We missed you," he said.
No sooner had Gagnon and I embraced when the
last door on the third floor opened, the one at the end
of the corridor, and Archbishop Hilarion Capucci joined
the impromptu welcome ceremony: "Père Chariot!"1 he
exclaimed and gave me three cheek kisses, then turned to
acknowledge Gagnon and Marini with a smile and a nod,
"Bienvenue," he welcomed, "Et ton voyage, s'est bien passé?
[And your trip, it went smoothly?"]
"Ça s'est très bien passé, Excellence," [It went very well,
Your Excellency.]
"How good to have you with us again," he continued,
"Such a mundane affair, breakfast, since you left," he
grinned, shook his head and rolled his eyes, "We'll talk
later," he said, excused himself and took his leave to enter
the elevator.
The three of us, Gagnon, Marini and I, decided that 1)
I needed to have a bite to eat and —since I told them that
I hadn't slept in 30 hours— 2) take a serious nap, and 3)
meet in Gagnon's room for an aguardiente before 4) leaving
at 7:30 for mandorle and pizza at Birreria Marconi.
"I'll call 'Er Dottore,"' Mario said, referring to the eldest
waiter at Marconi's by his Roman nickname, "er dottore"
[the doctor, or "Doc"] "and have him reserve the back comer
table for us, so we can talk." He then asked Archbishop
Gagnon, "Does 7:30 work for you, Monsignore?"
"That would be just fine," the Canadian answered.
"A lot has happened here in your absence," Mario told
me.
1 "Char/of’ was the name of Charlie Chaplin's character "The Tramp." Archbishop
Capucci called me this because I made him laugh.
Édouard Gagnon's eyebrows rose at least three

centimeters higher than the frame of his glasses as, with a
head nod, he said without saying it that, indeed, very much
had happened in my absence.
It took me a moment to remember where I was but
when I did, I sat up and forthrightly addressed the alarm
clock situation. It was 5:30, which meant I had just enough
time to unpack my bags, take a shower, and recite vespers
before conferring with my two senior confreres at 6:30.
The archbishop did the honors, and handed Mario and
me each a small terracotta cup, slightly larger than a shot
glass.
"Eduardo and Eulalia Martinez —a wonderful
Colombian couple from Medellin, a beautiful family —
send me a bottle of aguardiente every year at Christmas," he
prefaced and then raised his cup and respectfully offered:
"To His Holiness, the Pope; Vivat in aetemum [long life]."
Mario and I raised our cups slightly and answered in
kind: "In aeternuin vivat, " and then took a cautious sip of the
strong potion. Gagnon offered this Colombian fire-water
only on special occasions. I bit my tongue to keep from
blurting out what I always thought when I drank this
"treat": "I've never actually tasted paint remover, but I
imagine it tastes something like this!"
"And Cardinal Benelli?" I asked to get the ball rolling.
"Fine," said Gagnon, "doing very well. We met and
spoke before the conclave - and once afterwards," he added
demurely.
"The king-maker," Mario proudly interjected.
"Undoubtedly," I agreed.
"He entered the conclave knowing his friends from his
enemies," Mario continued, "and he knew exactly how
many he had of both, and who they were." He smirked,
"There's no greater realist on earth than the Deputy. He
knew he didn't have the votes —not the seventy-five
Archbishop Hilarion Capiteci
needed. But he also knew that he had more than any other
candidate. He knew he was in control. As Monsignor
Gagnon says, he knew that long before they intoned the
Veni, Creator Spiritns.
Édouard Gagnon chuckled and agreed: "Realistic,
self-controlled, pragmatic. The hardest-working man I
know."
"Quite a compliment coming from you, Excellency,
•no. MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
since you're the hardest working man I know," I said

honestly, and, making a playful bow to Mario, added,
"Present company excepted."
"Humph," he sluffed off the pretended slight, "Benelli
would have been perfect, but, Albino Luciani, Benelli's
own candidate, will be just fine with Benelli by his side."
"How's that?" I asked.
"Our new pontiff has asked the Cardinal of Florence to
be his new Secretary of State," Mario proudly announced,
"Has he not, Monseigneur?"
"He has," Gagnon confirmed.
"Wow!" I exclaimed. "I thought —I mean, I read
somewhere that the pope confirmed everyone in the Curia;
that they were to remain right where they were; no changes
would be made."
"You see, Padre Carlos," Gagnon explained with
paternal gentleness, "when a new pope takes office, the
Prefects from the previous pontificate present their written
resignations. That's just how it's done. Everywhere. In fact,
with every outgoing and incoming administration. And
rightly so," he said, accentuating the obvious sense of the
practice with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
"But you're saying that Pope John Paul didn't do that."
"It's not the end of the world," Marini declared, "The
mistake of a novillero [apprentice matador], that's all. He
shouldn't actually have instructed those scoundrels not
to resign, but he did. So?" he smirked, "They're in place pro
tempore - until further notice," he said more emphatically,
"It only shows how unprepared Luciani was. He hadn't
even entertained the possibility of leaving the conclave as
pope. Why, he himself voted for Benelli!"
"How could you possibly know that?" I asked, aware
of the solemn oath of silence each cardinal took regarding
the election process.
"Albino Luciani might be shy, but one thing he didn't
hide was his support for Benelli. Prior to entering the
Sistine Chapel, he told quite a few folks that the best pope
for our times is Cardinal Benelli... It's public knowledge."
"They've been close friends for years," Gagnon
concurred, "Benelli helped him greatly during his tenure
as President of the Italian Episcopal Conference."
"Even so," Mario was still chewing on the confirmation
issue, "It wasn't prudent to reconfirm all the curial
department heads. Imagine how pleased it must have
made Villot and Baggio."
"When did he ask him?" I asked the archbishop.
"Sorry? When did who ask what?"
"The Holy Father," I clarified, "when did he ask
Cardinal Benelli to be his Secretary of State?"
Édouard Gagnon remained pensive and silent again.
It suddenly occurred to me how much Mario had
come to view everything concerning what was best for
the entire Catholic Church through the lens of the drama of
his dismissal from the Secretariat of State and his ongoing
fight for reinstatement.
"Last Thursday," Gagnon gave voice to something he
obviously had been pondering, "the Holy Father had a
lengthy private audience with Cardinal Benelli. Benelli
called me immediately afterwards and asked to see me.
It was urgent, he said. I met with him and he told me
straight out, no beating around the bush." Then, looking at
Mario, "You know how he is when it comes to important
business."
"Humph," Marini snorted, "I certainly do."
"Well," he continued, "His Holiness is asking for the
results of the Apostolic Visitation. He wants me to present
them and explain some of the finer points of interest.
Naturally, I agreed! It's what I had tried to present to Pope
Paul, God rest him."
"Ma, questo é stupendo!" Mario exclaimed in Italian
— then, almost immediately, he looked somewhat annoyed.

Was his vexation caused by the fact that Giovanni Benelli
hadn't thought to share this stupendous news with him?
In any event, with Villot gone and Benelli in his place,
Marini's reinstatement was as good as done.
"Can I count on you to drive me?" Archbishop Gagnon
asked me directly.
"To your audience with the pope? You know you can!"
I responded enthusiastically, "Give me a little advance
notice, and I'll have the car polished to such a high gloss
that the guards in San Damaso will have to look away as
we approach!"
"Did Benelli say when your meeting would be?" Mario
inquired
"'Soon,' is what he told me," Gagnon responded,
"That's all I know at the moment."
The strong-willed Canadian tried to conceal his great
satisfaction with these new developments, but he simply
could not.
"Shouldn't we get to Marconi's before 'er dottore' gives
our table away to more deserving patrons?"
"Let's go!" Mario and I both said at the same time.
"OK. No argument," Édouard Gagnon announced
as he rose from his chair, "When the bill arrives, it's
mine. Tonight, gentlemen, dinner's on me," he said, and
concluded with a self-deprecating laugh, "How easy it is
to play the openhanded millionaire when it comes to six
beers and three pizzas! I'm just grateful, Don Mario, that
you didn't make reservations at Charlie's!"
This friendly jab did not refer to me, but to "Charly's
Sauciere," a great little hole-in-the-wall restaurant near the
Colosseum, run by Charly, an eccentric Swiss friend of
ours —but one with a rather pricey menu.
On Monday, the eighteenth of September, I registered
at the Gregorian for four graduate courses in philosophical
anthropology and an intriguing weekly seminar on Miguel
de Unamuno. From there I made my way across the city,
arriving at my work at the Vatican Information Office
fifteen minutes late. Having not seen my co-workers for
months, we spent some time kissing, hugging, joking,
laughing, and catching up. Even as we got down to work,
there was convivial, back and forth talk. Naturally, much
was said about Pope Paul VI's death, and more was said
about the new man, this "smiling pope", John Paul.
Like millions of others, I couldn't wait to see the man in
person, to get a real sense of him. In a world that seemed
to have lost its way, many of us looked to this particular
man, this Successor of Saint Peter and Vicar of Jesus Christ
on Earth, for guidance and hope.
That following Wednesday morning, at ten minutes
to eleven, I asked permission from our director, General
Santicchioli, to absent myself from the office for fifteen
minutes, time enough to walk over to the Aula Nervi and
get a glimpse of the new Pope during his general audience.
Permission granted, I took the shortcut through the back
doors of the Information Office and stood near the Swiss
Guards at the Nervi vestibule. Police whistles blew as
gendarmes waved the black Mercedes around the comer
of the Teutonic College chapel.
No sooner had the car come to a halt when, as if out
of nowhere, two men in black suits appeared and opened
the car's back doors. Out stepped the pope. For a fleeting
moment, our eyes met and he smiled and waved as he
passed by. Yes, as people were saying, there was something
extraordinarily genuine in that timid smile. Remarkable.
Yet, how strange to see another man taking the place of the
only man I'd ever seen be pope: Paul VI. Until then, I had
only heard the word "countersensational" used in certain
philosophy courses. This was the first time I experienced it.
I watched closely as Albino Luciani took an unsure
step up to the sedia gestatoria platform and seated himself.
Pope John Paul I

THE SMILING POPE • 115.
He held tight to its two arms as, in regimented fashion,

twelve tuxedo-clad sediari pontifici [pontifical chair porters],
six on one side, six on the other, took hold of the two side
poles and in one swift, synchronized move lifted the pontiff
above their heads and rested the poles on their shoulders.
The curtains parted, the thousands who had been waiting,
broke into thunderous cheering and applause, and the
papal entourage left the vestibule, moving through the
hall to the front stage.
Turning to make my way back to the office, I enjoyed
a feeling of tremendous satisfaction. Somehow, just by
seeing him, by catching the look in his eyes for that fraction
of a second, I knew that Albino Luciani had the makings of
an outstanding Pope. Knowing from Archbishop Gagnon
that the new pope had already asked Cardinal Giovanni
Benelli to be his right-hand man, his Secretary of State,
I was certain that this new pontificate was off to a great
start. Together, these two men would give the Church the
leadership and direction she so desperately needed right
then! Luciani and Benelli might have what it would take
to make as magnificent a team as Saint Pope Pius X and
his Secretary of State, Blessed Rafael Merry-del Vai.
What was to prevent it?!
THE SECOND DELIVERY
ATTEMPT
September 25,1978
"Are you nervous?" I asked my episcopal passenger.

"'Anxious' might be a better word," Édouard Gagnon
said quietly, "I've been anticipating this day since that
other one," he turned and looked me in the eyes, "the last
time you drove me to a papal audience." He smiled, "I
still haven't gotten over that surprise. To have the pope
tell you that he's no longer in condition to deal with the
results of your investigation..."
"His investigation, the investigation he commissioned,"
I interjected.
"The last time I spoke with him... the last time I saw
him alive..." he stopped in mid-sentence, "...There was
always something prophetic about Pope Paul," he mused,
"A profoundly spiritual man, to be sure."
Traffic slowed to a standstill. Rather than wait for things
to clear up, I told the archbishop not to worry, but to hold
on. Making a hard left, I did a couple of quick back-and-
forths into the opposite lane (carefully avoiding a cliff),
and took off in the opposite direction.
"And you've never had an accident in all your years
driving here, eh?" he asked in wonderment —not to be
funny.
To put my friend at ease, I chatted on, assuring him that
everything he was about to discuss with the pope would be
well-received. "I'm sure that Cardinal Benelli has spoken
• 118* MURDER INTHE33RD DEGREE
at length with His Holiness and has explained in detail

that the result of your investigation into the Roman Curia
offers a blueprint for purging and rebuilding his central
government."
"Yes, Cardinal Benelli assured me of the same...
However, he will not accept the position of Secretary of
State until Baggio is removed from the Congregation for
Bishops."
Of course, there were many things I didn't understand
about the workings of the Church, but there were many I
understood perfectly well.
"And Cardinal Villot? Who tells him it's time to go?"
Édouard Gagnon thought about that a moment. As
far as I could see, he was not searching for an answer to
my question —he knew the answer— but rather, he was
asking himself whether he should be speaking with me
about such things. At any rate, finally he did answer me:
"It seems Cardinal Villot has already seen to that himself.
He submitted his resignation the day after the election. The
pope accepted it but asked that he remain until such time
as his replacement could be found. The cardinal suggested
Archbishop Casaroli."
"Casaroli?" I scoffed, "Villot, Junior."
"The pope had already decided on Cardinal Benelli."
"Then, why doesn't Cardinal Benelli deal with Baggio
when he takes the reins? As Secretary of State, he'd have
the power to banish the Freemason to Cucamonga if he
wanted to."
"I'm not sure where Cucamonga is, exactly," Gagnon (a
fellow W.C. Fields fan) said with a smile, "But what about
the Cucamongese?" he paused in doubt for a moment.
"Somewhere in California," I responded. "And I believe
the inhabitants prefer 'Cucamongolians,' to Cucamongese,"
I suggested with a deadpan expression and managed to
get another rise out of Gagnon.
THE SECOND DELIVERY ATTEMPT • 119.
"Well," he chuckled again, "whatever they call

themselves, I'm sure they have community standards.
What possible sin could they have committed to deserve
the Prefect of the Sacred Congregation for Bishops as
a penance?!" he asked the rhetorical question in jest,
but shook his head in real wonderment over the entire
scandalous Baggio matter.
"Right," I agreed, "but Cardinal Benelli could see to
Baggio himself, couldn't he? From what little I've observed
of our new pontiff, he is both intelligent and devout, but he
does not give the impression of being very strong. Strong-
willed," I qualified.
"Maybe that's just the point," Gagnon added
knowingly, "Maybe Cardinal Benelli insists he do this first
major change in his pontificate himself. You know," he
said, then thought a moment for the American maxim to
come to him, "take the bull by the horns."
We entered the gates to Vatican City and sped
around the back of Saint Peter's Basilica. I slowed down
considerably, to a dignified speed, just before entering the
Cortile San Damaso, and drove up as close as I could gel
to the stairs to the elevator.
The dry-run, four months ago, with Paul VI, made
today's exercise seem like child's play. It was, in the
memorable words attributed (like so many) to Yogi Berra:
"It's Déjà vu all over again!"
I got out of the Fiat, as did Archbishop Édouard Gagnon.
He put the violet zucchetto on his head, readjusted his
cassock sash and pectoral cross, and reached back into the
car for his black leather bookbag containing the collection
of documents powerful enough to sink a battleship. Then
the archbishop surprised me again, asking for my blessing.
Humbly, with embarrassment a sinful man and imperfect
priest imparted his blessing to a saint and scholar, a noble
man bent on reforming Christ's Church on earth.
"It will go well for you. Excellency," I said, "It will go

better than you ever imagined!"
Archbishop Édouard Joseph Gagnon smiled, and with
steady resolve in his soul, was on his way.
When Archbishop Édouard Gagnon exited the elevator,
he was met by a very subdued Cardinal Jean Villot. They
walked down the corridor side by side but, unlike four
months ago, this morning's conversation was minimal.
When they reached the papal apartment the two Swiss
Guards at either side of the doors, stiffened to attention
and gave a crisp heel-click salute. Villot opened and held
the door for Gagnon and then followed slightly behind
him. "Archbishop Gagnon," the new Pope called out from
the other side of the long room, "Good morning, Your
Excellency," he said and stood to greet his guest.
The famous smile, now aimed directly and solely at
him, made Gagnon profoundly aware that he was in the
presence of Christ's Vicar. Though false pride was nowhere
to be found in Édouard Joseph Gagnon, he felt deeply
humbled by the sincerity and warmth of the man who
owned that welcoming smile. He walked up to him and
kissed the fisherman's ring, and the fisherman invited him
to be seated in the chair directly facing him.
Cardinal Jean Villot asked the Pope if there was anything
else he might need. Pope John Paul answered politely that
there was not, and Jean Villot dutifully disappeared.
Albino Luciani and Gagnon did not know each other
very well, but they had met several times. Fortifying their
mutual respect was their great admiration for Giovanni
Benelli, who, not surprisingly, had already spoken highly
and at great length of each man to the other. In fact, Papa
Luciani and Gagnon somehow felt they had known each
other for years. Such are the first sparks of friendship.
Before getting down to business, Pope John Paul let
Archbishop Gagnon know that he fully shared Paul VPs
apprehensions; that "the smoke of Satan" most certainly
THE SECOND DELIVERY ATTEMPT .121.
had entered the Church and now, to a very real degree,

was asphyxiating her; that many of the hierarchy, priests,
and religious were undergoing a crisis of faith.
Pope John Paul expressed his deep gratitude to the
Apostolic Visitor for the three years of dedication and
painstaking labors he put into the delicate investigation.
"Is what we hear true?" Pope John Paul inquired, "That
vandals broke into your rooms and offices because of this
investigation? That you received death threats?"
"It is true, Your Holiness."
"Why did you not request accommodations inside
Vatican City?"
"Holy Father?" Gagnon asked for clarification.
"For security. For your personal protection."
Now understanding the question, Édouard Gagnon
could not keep himself from laughing.
"Holy Father!" he chuckled, "Saltare dalla padella nella
brace [From the frying pan into the fire]?!" he asked, "With
all respect, Holy Father," Gagnon could not completely
wipe the grin off his face, "Those ruffians —the ones who
ransack rooms and threaten lives;" he looked squarely at
the Pope, "where do you think they live?!"
John Paul's innocent face simultaneously registered
disbelief and belief.
"Madonna Santa!" he exclaimed.
"No, no," Gagnon shook his head, "I'm fine right where
I am, Holy Father. I live two doors down from an accused
Palestinian terrorist, and I feel much safer there than I
believe Your Holiness feels here."
The pontiff's whole demeanor changed noticeably.
Hardly a trace of the smile was detectable and his attention
to the Apostolic Visitor's remarks and observations was
more concentrated. He undid three buttons on his cassock
and pulled from his vest pocket two folded sheets of paper
with handwritten notes on them. He then moved several

blank sheets of paper closer to himself and cleared his
voice.
"As Your Excellency can imagine, there are a number
of subjects about which we have been advised to give you
close hearing," he began, obviously following Giovanni
Benelli's instructions to the letter, "Three of these matters
we would like to address at once."
"Of course, Holy Father."
"First of all, very serious accusations have been made
against a number of Curia members. I myself," he said,
forgetting the majestic plural, "have seen a list of names
and have been hearing these claims for two or three years
now," he said, "My straightforward questions to you are:
Is there any truth to these allegations? If so, do you know
who and how many they are? And, again, if such is the
case," the pope added cautiously, "can you substantiate
these claims with verifiable proof?" he asked, and slowly
reached for one of the two ballpoint pens at his disposal.
Gagnon lifted his black leather book bag, placed it on
the desktop, opened it and took out three tomes. Briefly, he
explained each one: the thickest contained a chronological
history of his investigation, with significant results
obtained from hundreds of person-to-person interviews,
department by department. A thinner tome held pertinent
documentation. The thinnest tome contained his conclusion
and suggested steps to be taken to remedy "the most serious
problems" that — as Gagnon himself clarified pointedly for
the new Pontiff— "avevo scoperto o, con il permesso di
Sua Santità, 'dissotterrato'" [I discovered or, with Your
Holiness's permission, 'unearthed'"].
The archbishop opened the middle volume at one of
the several protruding tabs, and turned the tome to face
the pope.
John Paul's eyes moved as he scanned the two pages,
THE SECOND DELIVERY ATTEMPT • 123.
otherwise he remained motionless and silent. Gagnon

wondered: Did he know his mouth was wide open?
"Document forty-one:" Archbishop Gagnon interrupted
the pontiff's mute stillness and placed his index finger on
the top of the page, "His Eminence, Cardinal Sebastiano
Baggio; Document forty-two: His Excellency, Bishop
Annibale Bugnini."
Three following pages held accompanying testimonies
as to the veracity of the documents.
When Pope John Paul finished reading, he looked
to Gagnon with stark seriousness: "How did we come
by these documents?" "Both were obtained through
Their Eminences, Cardinals Dino Staffa and Silvio Oddi.
Cardinal Staffa died last year. But in 1975, then-Deputy
Benelli contacted me and asked that I meet with Staffa in
person. I did, of course, and listened to all the good man
had to say. Even before Cardinal Staffa contacted Benelli
about this material, he had asked special agents from
Interpol to investigate these documents. They reported
back that the documents were authentic. Cardinal Staffa,
together with Cardinal Oddi, who had been conducting
his own investigation, took the documents to the Holy
Father. Certainly, Cardinal Benelli can give you a much
more detailed report of the entire matter, should you wish.
He, not Cardinal Villot, was present at that meeting with
Pope Paul VI, Staffa and Oddi."
"Freemason bishops?" John Paul muttered, "You are a
canon lawyer...," he looked to Gagnon, but did not finish
his thought. He did not have to; the archbishop finished
it for him.
"Any Catholic — lay or cleric — who enters Freemasonry,
incurs automatic excommunication. Canon 2335," he
quoted.
"Excommunication..." John Paul muttered the horrible-
sounding word, "... to put the salvation of their souls in
such..."
"As terrible as that is. Holy Father," Archbishop

Gagnon interjected, "far worse is the damage these two
men have inflicted upon Christ's Church!"
"Archbishop Bugnini directed the liturgical reforms
after the Council, going far beyond the mandate of the
Council Fathers, in effect creating new liturgical and
sacramental rites. He welcomed Protestant scholars
to take part in his "renewal" of the Roman liturgy, a
renewal that seems rather to be a reinvention. Liturgical
"experimentation" has been rampant, making a plaything
of the most solemn rites of the Church. And he presided
over this revolution."
"We are aware." the pope said quietly. "But Archbishop
Bugnini has been removed," he rather weakly added.
True enough; Bishop Annibale Bugnini, former
Secretary of Sacred Congregation for Worship, and proud
architect of the [1969] Novus Ordo Missae, the so-called
"New Mass," had already been dealt with —technically,
that is.
"As for Cardinal Baggio, Your Holiness," Gagnon
pushed forward, "Here you have another very dangerous
man championing Masonic ideals. No, no, Holy Father,"
Gagnon made an abrupt stop, "Not a 'very dangerous
man championing Masonic ideals' - No! As the evidence
demonstrates, a bishop who, because of his association
with Freemasonry is de facto excommunicated — and he
continues to vet and nominate every Catholic bishop in
the world!"
The gravity of allowing Sebastiano Baggio, cardinal
and Freemason, to continue as Prefect of the Sacred
Congregation for Bishops was simply and completely
intolerable. Almost singlehandedly, "Brother Sebastiano,"
as he was addressed in the documentation, had chosen
Catholic leaders worldwide since 1973.
Finally, Pope John Paul broke his long and thoughtful
silence:
"You know. Excellency, Cardinal Benelli insists I

confront Baggio. He says the only way to rid yourself of a
vulture is to show him a higher perch."
"I don't know that I follow you, Holy Father."
"Cardinal Benelli suggests I appoint Baggio to Venice."
Édouard Gagnon's surprise showed, "Venice?! To
try and fill your shoes? You say this is Cardinal Benelli's
suggestion?"
"He says it's the only way Cardinal Baggio will go
quietly. Given all the years of background checks, reports,
and personal files about priests and bishops that have come
into the Prefect's hands for the purpose of nominating
bishops, Cardinal Benelli is concerned that his brother
cardinal is in a unique position to blackmail any number
of important and key people."
"Are you asking my opinion about that suggestion,
Holy Father?"
"I am. You know what we're facing. You know the man.
You know the delicacy of the situation."
After a moment's consideration, Archbishop Édouard
Gagnon spoke with measured reservation: "If Cardinal
Benelli says 'Send him to Venice!' then I would send him
to Venice. Furthermore, if Cardinal Benelli were to tell me
that I confront the man myself and hand him his walking
papers, then I would tell him where to go — and the fastest
way to get there. In other words, Most Holy Father: You,
Pope John Paul, must confront the evil in person; You,
Pope John Paul, must rid Rome of the evil."
"That, my dear Brother, is exactly what we feared you
would say," he responded, managing to muster only a
half-smile. "God be merciful," he added quietly.
"Is Your Holiness ready for a change of venue?"
Gagnon asked, "The world of Vatican finances awaits. I
should warn you, Holy Father, this, like everything else,
also requires your urgent attention... I must further warn
you that Vatican finances, like just about everything else

I've come across these past few years, it is not unrelated to
Freemasonry. In fact, they have had quite a stranglehold
on the Church."
"Is it any wonder, dear Brother, that our predecessor
of happy memory recoiled from hearing all of this?"
"The truth is, Holy Father, you've inherited a Church in
terrible disarray. While the situation is dire, it can and must
be addressed now. I have every hope that Your Holiness,
with Cardinal Benelli as Secretary of State to assist you,
can deal with this. There's still time. It can be done."
"God help us," the Pope prayed.
"Shall we continue, Your Holiness?"
About ten minutes after the Angelus, I heard:
"Monsignore!" and looked up from my book to see a
policeman waving in my direction. "His Excellency has
arrived." There was Archbishop Édouard Gagnon making
his way toward me. Even from a distance I saw the smile
on his face. I jumped out and ran around to open the door
for him. I took his much thinner and lighter book bag from
him, this time without a word of protest from him.
No sooner had I retaken my place behind the wheel
when I looked at him and asked point blank in Spanish:
"Y?!" [And?!]
"We have much to be thankful for! The Almighty has
seen fit to send us the right man for these trying times.
You ask how it went, Don Carlo?" he repeated and smiled
broadly as we made our way downhill around the basilica,
"I'll tell you: the Holy Father himself and the audience
were more than I had dared to hope for. And, believe
me, regarding this entire matter and this very important
audience with the new pope, I dared to hope very high! The
mutual trust was immediate - almost palpable. I answered
every question he had as clearly as I knew how. He listened
with more than his ears, my boy; he listened with his heart;
he listened with his Catholic soul."
"Wow!" I exclaimed, "It went that well?"
"Believe me; yes."
"What kind of a man is he, the new pope?"
"Santo y sabio [Saintly and wise]," he answered and
nodding, agreed with himself, "There's no doubt about
it," he continued, "Pope John Paul and Cardinal Giovanni
Benelli are exactly what the Church militant has been
waiting and praying for for two decades. They stand to
outshine Sarto [Saint Pope Pius X] and Merry del Vai [Pius
X's talented and able Secretary of State.]"
Never had I seen Archbishop Édouard Joseph Gagnon
so exultant, so absolutely pleased with life. He almost
radiated contentment.
"The stranglehold on the Congregation for Bishops is
about to be released." He then turned and looked at me.
"You know, I almost feel sorry for Bugnini."
"Sorry? For Bugnini?!" I gave a kneejerk answer, "What
would make you feel sorry for that lout?"
"What a tragedy for a man to lose his soul; for him to
forfeit his soul. And for what? I'll never understand it. At
least, I hope I never do." He looked out the side window
and spoke softer, to himself, "And from so far a distance,
to have to watch what he sold his soul for crumble and
disintegrate."
It seemed clear to me that the distance of which he
spoke was much, much further than that between Rome
and Teheran.
Of course, the accomplishments of the day called
for at least a minor celebration, and later that evening,
Gagnon, Marini and I, drove to the Twelve Apostles Bar
and Pizzeria, in Piazza dei Dodici Apostoli.
Gagnon did not go into details about his special audience
with the Pope, other than to declare it "tremendously
successful," to which he also added, to cover his bases:

"So far."
After the first major "salute" to "His Holiness, Pope
John Paul," Mario Marini asked rather bluntly: "Did you
mention my case to the pope?"
Édouard Gagnon put down his glass stein, looked at
him and said: "I had a decision to make this morning.
Either I helped map out the future of the Roman Catholic
Church with the Vicar of Christ on earth, whose precious,
full and focused attention I had for a very limited period
of time, OR I took that time to explain to Christ's Vicar the
unfair plight of Monsignor Mario Marini.
"I chose the former —for which, my friend, I do not
apologize— especially knowing, as do you, that your case
will be resolved soon enough, when the pope names his
new Secretary of State.
"We must all learn to be patient, Mario," he said and
lifted his stein, "The time and the place and the right man
are just around the comer," he said and added a second
toast of the evening: "To His Eminence, Cardinal Giovanni
Benelli!"
"And to patience," I dared to add.
.129.
GOOD NIGHT, HOLY

FATHER”
September 28,1978
Albino Luciani had always been a man of prayer. Long

before his ordination to priesthood he had disciplined
himself to begin each day with Divine Office and
meditation. After ordination in 1935, that "dawn of prayer"
was usually followed by Mass.
This morning, seated before the Tabernacle in the silent
tranquility of his private chapel, Pope John Paul could not
keep his mind focused nor his thoughts organized. An
interior battle with tens of recurring scrimmages invaded
his every pious intention.
Giovanni Benelli's invaluable experience, his heartfelt
motivational talks, his clear directions, together with
Édouard Gagnon's detailed Curial investigation results,
personal observations and encouragement to forge ahead,
undoubtedly strengthened the pope's determination.
Still, the nearer that dreaded face-to-face encounter with
Cardinal Sebastiano Baggio approached, the more his
discomfort grew. This was the first definitive battle of his
pontificate, and both Benelli and Gagnon had assured him
it could be neither avoided nor postponed. Occasionally he
took his eyes from the Tabernacle and Crucifix to consult
his watch. Still twelve and a half hours of disquieting
anticipation to endure.
At ten o'clock in the morning, the pope picked up
the phone in his study and called the office of the Sacred
Congregation for Bishops. Somewhat diffidently, he asked
the desk clerk if Cardinal Sebastiano Baggio might be free

to take his call. When asked who was calling, John Paul
answered simply "il Papa/' The nervous clerk barged in
on his superior and a group of African bishops to inform
him of the call.
Pope John Paul expressed his desire to meet with
Baggio that same day. When the cardinal responded that
his schedule was particularly heavy and asked if they could
meet the next day, the Holy Father proposed to see him
after office hours. "This evening then, in my study."
"As Your Holiness wishes," the Prefect agreed.
Just minutes before eight o'clock that evening, a loud
knock on the doors to the Papal Apartments announced
the cardinal's arrival. It was an unusual time of day for a
meeting, and unusual as well that no one else was to be
present. The Swiss Guards were told to expect him. The
door opened, and Cardinal Baggio went in.
The two men, arguably the most powerful figures in
the Catholic Church, faced each other across the desk. The
tension was palpable. The urgency of the appointment, and
the fact that the pope would not even put it off for even
one day, suggested to Cardinal Baggio that a moment of
reckoning had come. Archbishop Gagnon and his black
book bag, bulging with documentation from his three years'
intense investigation, was very much on the cardinal's
mind. He had been accused of ties with Freemasonry
during the pontificate of Paul VI, and had categorically
and vigorously denied the accusation. But this was a
different pope, not a man with whom he had worked for
many years. An outsider, the new pope was free of both
the loyalties and jealousies that abounded in curial circles.
And he had seen Gagnon's just days before. How would
this new occupant of the Chair of Peter approach him?
The Holy Father had his own reasons for trepidation.
By nature a conciliatory man, he was now confronting —
so early in his pontificate! — an emotional and unnerving
“GOOD NIGHT, HOLY FATHER" .131.
Sebastiano Cardinal Baggio

situation. The man across from him was one of the highest-
ranking members of the Roman Curia, a bishop who had
given many years of service to the Holy See. How Papa
Luciani dealt with the serious charges he had heard about
him would send reverberations through the whole Curia.
No matter what path he chose, his action would instantly
make friends or foes of many. And, if Cardinal Benelli
was to be believed, the cardinal would resist efforts to be
removed and could be ruthless in defending his position.
The gravity of the evidence made it plain that something
substantive must be done now, immediately. The scandal
had already simmered far too long. All day long, the Holy
Father had felt the anguish of this encounter in the depths
of his soul. How tempting it would have been to put it off,
even for a day, as the Prefect had suggested. But, having
made his decision, the pope was resolved to act quickly,
lest his courage desert him.
The meeting lasted about forty-five minutes. No one
else was present, and the only testimony about it came via
the grapevine in the days after — the Swiss Guards on duty
later reported that voices were raised, suggesting that it
was very contentious. No one apart from Cardinal Baggio
knew what was said, or what thoughts filled his mind as
he closed the door.
* * * * *
Even with one eye half-opened, I could see that it was

the middle of the night. I turned over, intent on getting
back to sleep. The knocking at my door started up again.
"Chi e? Cosa c'W" I called out.
Whoever was on the other side of my door was knocking
so hard, rapidly and incessantly, that he could not hear me
calling out and asking who it was and what he wanted.
"Charlie! It's me: Fernando! Open!"
“GOOD NIGHT, HOLY FATHER" • 133»
Seriously annoyed —the outlandish disturbance must

have awakened the entire residence— nevertheless, I
opened and my Costa Rican friend and classmate entered.
Suddenly, I was more confused than irritated. This made
no sense. Luis Fernando Soto lived across town, on the
other side of the Tiber, at San Anselmo on the Aventine
hill. What was he doing here, and at this hour? Strategically
speaking: How did he get past our three lines of defense:
the Syrians, the Israelis, and — fiercest of all when provoked
before breakfast— the Lebanese nuns?
At any rate, there stood Luis Fernando, in a state of
shock.
"All right! Calm down! What is so earth-shakingly
important? What?! Did the pope die?!" I asked this just to
illustrate what I meant by "earthshaking".
I watched Luis Fernando's jaw drop and his previously
startled eyes widen even further.
"You mean, you already knew?" he asked with
incredulous amazement, "How?"
I was completely awake now and did not find
Fernando's antics in the least bit amusing. "What do you
mean, how?! Did it take that news a month to reach the
Aventine?"
"Charlie, I just came from Mass at Saint Peter's: the
pope, the new pope, Pope John Paul: He's dead, Charlie!
Turn on Radio Vaticana and hear it for yourself."
I turned on the Grundig and fine-tuned the channel
until I heard clearly a male voice solemnly confirming Luis
Fernando's claim.
"They killed him," the shaken Costa Rican said, "They
murdered the pope!"
One quick rap on my open door revealed an unhappy
and growling Mario Marini. "You're making enough noise
in here to raise the dead! What in the world is going on
here?"
• 134. MURDER INTHE33RD DEGREE
"Basta! Come in and listen to this!" I ordered and

turned up the radio volume a notch. The male announcer
repeated in Italian: "After a thirty-four-day pontificate, the
Holy Father, Pope John Paul, is dead..." In the background,
the deepest bell of the basilica slowly tolled the pontiff's
sixty-six years on earth. Mario Marini collapsed into my
reading chair. He made the sign of the cross and listened
carefully to every word of the radio commentary.
I hurried down the cold marble floor barefoot to
inform our two other third-floor residents. I knocked first
on Archbishop Gagnon's door and, immediately after on
Archbishop Capucci's. Within a second of each other, both
doors opened and two wondering gazes stared at me. From
the corridor, in French, I announced the alarming news.
"Mais, tu as fait un cauchemar, Père Charles!" Capucci
remarked.
"A nightmare, to be sure, Excellency; but not mine
alone. The Holy Father is dead. Turn on Vatican Radio."
Then, in a Spanish aside, I told Édouard Gagnon that
Mario Marini and I were in my room and that he should
join us.
"Voy," he answered.
"Gagnon's on his way," I told Marini as soon as I
reentered my room. Calling my Costa Rican friend aside,
I asked him to go to the café around the comer to get four
caffé lattes and cornetti.
No sooner had the seminarian left when the archbishop
arrived. I gave Édouard Gagnon my desk chair and I sat on
the comer of the bed. For ten solid minutes, the three of us
listened to the radio with rapt attention. It seemed surreal:
could we really be hearing this? One thing was for sure,
the vigor with which Archbishop Gagnon was shaking
his head made it clear that he was not buying the simple
"heart attack" explanation. When it was reported that the
pontiff was found in a serene, sleeping position holding
“GOOD NIGHT, HOLY FATHER” • 135.
a copy of The Imitation of Christ in his lifeless hands that

proved too much for both my early-morning guests.
"It's like most things they touch ..." Archbishop
Gagnon angrily muttered. He did not finish the sentence.
He didn't have to. It was plain to see that this death hit
him extremely hard.
"Filthy Masons!" Mario Marini spat the words out.
While not disagreeing with him, Gagnon looked at both
of us and suggested, "Let us offer a prayer for the repose
of his soul."
We stood and with ancient Latin orations we implored
heaven's mercy on the soul of our departed pontiff and on
our own as well. As always, Archbishop Gagnon offered
our prayers to the Triune God, through the intercession
of the Blessed Virgin. Just before he ended, he stopped
and invited Mario and me to invoke with him a powerful
heavenly figure. Intensely, with his eyes pressed tightly
closed, he began: "Sancte Michael Archangele... [Saint
Michael the archangel, defend us in battle, be our defense
against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God
rebuke him, we humbly pray, and you, O prince of the
heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan
and all the evil spirits who roam about the world seeking
the ruin of souls. Amen".]
A STROLL IN THE GARDEN .137.
A STROLL IN
THE GARDEN
October 8,1978
The approaching conclave was having a positive effect

on my friend Mario: his complaints regarding his dismissal
from the Secretariat of State, his rants against Cardinal Jean
Villot for that grave injustice, and his lamentations over
his relocation from the center of things to the Jesuit Prep
School in EUR had lessened considerably. My mentor's
attention had returned to the much bigger picture.
Marini was speaking to Archbishop Gagnon, "Well,
Monsignore, having had quite an extraordinary dress
rehearsal, the surviving cardinals will meet again on the
fourteenth."
"Yes, this Saturday," I observed, content to add
something, however meager, to the conversation of these
two "above and beyond" savvy gentlemen.
As we were to meet Monsignor Zannoni for dinner later
on that evening, the three of us decided to forego pranzo
and take full advantage of the crisp autumn weather and
the midday quiet of a Roman Sunday for a long walk in
the gardens of Villa Schiarra.
Of course, I marveled to myself how these two men
already knew —or seemed to know— or thought they
knew - the identity of the next pope. They spoke of a man
I had never heard of; a cardinal from Poland! How absurd,
I thought, a Polish pope.
However, I clearly recalled the Ravenna/Mexico phone
call in which Mario named that "next pope," Albino Luciani,

albeit in "Saint Malachy code." On that occasion, he also
spoke of a non-Italian possibility. Could this man be him?
My friends were predicting that in just a matter of days,
that foreign candidate would be elected. "In fact," Gagnon
told us, "Cardinal Karol Wojtyla is Benelli's candidate. I
believe he would make a good pope."
"With Benelli as his Secretary of State," Marini jumped
right in, "How could he not make a good pope?"
"And Benelli?" I asked, "Couldn't he win the election
himself?"
"Well..."
"I can tell you this much," Édouard Gagnon responded,
"Cardinal Benelli possesses two outstanding qualities —
two that outshine his many others. They are honesty and
pragmatism.
"And determination," Mario could not resist adding,
"The man has a will of steel."
"Because of these," Gagnon continued, "nothing in the
August conclave got past him unnoticed. Not a thing." He
pursed his lips and nodded his head in a sort of wondering
admiration for the man, "Again, because he is honest and
pragmatic and determined," he gave an acquiescent nod
to Mario, "Benelli entered the last conclave knowing he
would not be elected. He went in with one major objective
in mind: to prevent the leadership of the Catholic Church
from being usurped by a Freemason who, if elected pope,
would oversee the ruination of the Church."
The statement almost knocked me over.
A moment of silence passed.
"You know, I heard Cardinal Baggio interviewed on
Vatican Radio the day after the pope's death," I said. "They
wanted his reaction to the news. His answer: 'Che colpo.'
[What a blow.] When the same reporter interviewed the
Archbishop of Milan, Cardinal Colombo, he had answered:
A STROLL IN THE GARDEN .139.
ZI spoke with him only a few days ago and he sounded

wonderful, in good health/ or words to that effect. But
when they asked Baggio, the last person to see him alive,
all he could get out were two words: 'Che colpo.'
Both of my companions nodded matter-of-factly. We
sat on a bench to survey the gardens.
I decided to stir things up a bit, and so went on: "You
know, Mario, the Vatican just released another statement,
a 'clarification/ that Papa Luciani died of a heart attack."
I stated this with obvious skepticism.
My friend rose to the bait: "Villot and Casaroli have
been saying that, or versions of it, from the beginning.
It's the embellishments around the heart attack that keep
changing. They can't keep their stories straight. They
should just sit down and agree on one story, and then
stick to the script!"
He continued, "From the very beginning, didn't I
say what pure codswallop that was about Papa Luciani
dying in bed while reading The Imitation of Christ? I told
you: poisonings or heart attacks leave the victim's body
convulsed — not slumbering in peace, with reading-glasses
neatly in place, and both hands holding an open book..."
I watched Édouard Gagnon's expression. He was not
disagreeing with what he was hearing.
"If he was reading anything," Marini went on, "it was a
list of urgent changes he had to make in the Roman Curia!
Why, it could have been Monsignore's own list!" he said,
acknowledging Édouard Gagnon's efforts in the urgent
cause of Curial reform. My friend was now getting worked
up: "And that in this day and age the Frenchman [Villot]
refused to authorize an autopsy of the Vicar of Christ - the
spiritual leader of over half a billion Catholics, a man all the
world suspects was murdered by his own den of vipers - is
one of the most outrageous and audacious things I've ever
heard in my life! And, believe me," he lifted his open hand
as if swearing an oath, "When it comes to outrageous and

audacious, I've heard enough for three lifetimes!"
I waited for Mario Marini to cool down before I asked
Archbishop Gagnon: "And you, Excellency, do you think
Papa Luciani's death involved foul play?" I wanted to
ask, "Do you think the pope was murdered?" but I wasn't
comfortable being so blunt about it.
He was slow to answer. I could see how seriously he
considered my question. He knew that I had asked it in
all sincerity. Did he consider me too young to handle the
truth of it? Was he looking for a way to answer honestly
without scandalizing me?
He stood, dusted off the seat of his black pants, and we
resumed our walk.
The crunching of the gravel underfoot exaggerated the
stark silence.
"There are any number of ways a man might be killed,"
he finally said, "You'd agree with me so far, no?"
"Absolutely," I eagerly granted.
"Would you also agree that he stopped in midsentence,
"Let me be very clear," he warned, "We're speaking here
theoretically. Is that understood?"
The faint smirk he had on his face and the way his
eyebrows were raised seemed to tell me — and, I believed,
Mario, as well - that what he was about to say was just a
tad beyond theoretical.
"Understood," I affirmed.
"First off: all this street-talk," he shook his head, "rumors
of tea-poisoning or of pillow strangulation ... such things
are out of the question. But he could have died because
those around him did not urge him to attend to matters
relating to his health. In such a case, the Holy Father's
death could be the result of incompetence or neglect." He
pressed on: "If, in fact, there really was 'foul play' in this
case, then I do not find it unreasonable to entertain the
A STROLL IN THE GARDEN • 141«
possibility of a sixty-six-year-old man being induced —

pushed, if you will, beyond his physical and emotional
limits - into cardiac arrest."
"Particularly when that sixty-six-year-old has a weak
heart, a history of coronary problems, and is taking
prescribed heart medications," Mario added.
"The point I'm trying to make is this," Gagnon went on,
"You ask if I suspect 'foul play' in the death of Pope John
Paul. If by that you mean: do I believe he was murdered,
the answer must be, 'no.' Do I think he was killed indirectly
— then, my answer is, 'yes,' I do believe he might have
been."
Mario picked up the question from there: "Cardinal
Villot claims he was the last person to see the Holy Father
alive. The Frenchman is covering for his friend. The real
'last person' to see the Holy Father alive was none other
than Sebastiano Baggio. Baggio, who argued with the
pope so heatedly that the Swiss Guards heard his yelling
in the outside corridor! Baggio, who I've heard told the
pope to his face that he refused, flatly refused, to leave the
Vatican, even after the pope offered him Venice! Wouldn't
treatment like that frighten half to death a humble, timid
man with the weight of the world on his shoulders?"
"Hmmm...," I mused to myself, "... murder in the
thirty-third degree?"
"Sorry?" Gagnon asked. "Never mind."
I tried not to show it, but my friends' words stunned
me. It was one thing to hear such things bruited about on
Roman street comers by ordinary people who have a taste
for gossip and scandal, quite another to hear them from
highly-placed Churchmen, and especially from these two,
whose insight and wisdom I regarded so highly.
A series of questions raced through my mind. Why
didn't the Holy Father summon guards and have the
shouting, wrought-up cardinal escorted from his room?
What evidence concerning Cardinal Baggio had my

friend presented to the pope, and what effect would the
confirmation of such serious charges against one the most
highly-placed men in the Vatican have had on him?
My thoughts drifted from Baggio to Archbishop
Bugnini. It was common knowledge that his "promotion"
to Iran by Pope Paul had in fact meant dismissal and exile.
And yet it was Pope Paul himself who had brought the
liturgical expert back from exile! Annibale Bugnini had
served as an advisor during the pontificate of Pius XII,
but "good Pope John" sent him packing. Papa Montini
reinstated him. And then he allowed him to direct the
implementation of the liturgical reforms mandated by the
Council Fathers, reforms that went far beyond what they
had asked for or imagined. I remembered vividly one very
disturbing exchange I had with Monsignor Marini. I asked
him: "In other words, the new Mass, the Novus Ordo, was
created by a Freemason, an excommunicate who, if he dies
unrepentant, will appear before God already damned to
hell?" And he pointedly answered, "No, not 'in other
words' —those are the very words!"
The evidence seemed conclusive that both Archbishop
Bugnini and Cardinal Baggio were Freemasons. In accord
with Church law at the time, this meant that in fact they
were automatically excommunicated. How could this state
of affairs have been allowed to go on for so long ... and in
the case of Cardinal Baggio, this was still the case. Prelates?
They were excommunicated Catholics.
My thoughts flitted from the past and present to the
future. Clearly, whether it was Benelli's Polish candidate
or some other who was elected, this mess had to be dealt
with once and for all. I was not alone in my silent thoughts:
Archbishop Gagnon, too, was pensive and silent, with the
kind of silence mourners observe at a graveside.
FROM A DISTANT COUNTRY .143.
FROM A DISTANT
COUNTRY
October 16,1978
Two days before the second conclave of 1978, I

drove over toward the Vatican after my morning classes
at the Gregorian University. Just before the Via della
Conciliazione arrives at St. Peter's Square, there's a short,
narrow side street: Via Padre Pancrazio Pfeiffer. Named
for the Bavarian priest who saved hundreds of Jews during
the German occupation in 1943, the modest alley was easily
overlooked —and, as such, it never failed to provide me
with a secret parking spot. The bonus today was that it
was next door to my favorite bookstore. There I met up
with a priest friend who worked there, one of my favorite
people in Rome.
Born in Bergamo and seven years my senior, Carlo
Bertoia was a member of the religious community
responsible for this store, and he had asked my help in
organizing its English book section. Carlo was a true
human rarity: he was naturally good —that is, good by
nature. He was the kind of man that - as my French Great-
Grandmother used to say — "Le bon Dieu n'en fait qu'un,
chaque vengt-neuf février, [The good Lord makes only
one, and only every leap year]." So, when my Bergamasco
brother asked a favor of me, I always did my best to oblige.
We rolled up our sleeves and began tackling the problem
facing us. Since just about all of the three-thousand books
in English had been shelved haphazardly, step one was to
remove them all from the bookcases and place them on the
• 144« MURDER INTHE 33RD DEGREE
ground, to be classified and categorized later. Younger and

(presumably) nimbler, I was elected to climb the ladder and
lower each of the dusty volumes to Nico, our "acrophobic"
assistant. Rolling the library ladder to the fifth bookshelf, I
made my ascent; from this perch, as I turned to hand more
books to Nico, I thought I saw someone I knew.
"Hey!" quietly but loudly enough I called to Carlo
Bertoia.
He looked up at me from the nearby register where
he was with a customer, smiled, and gave a "What's up?"
jerk of the head.
"Identification: eleven o'clock."
Carlo turned slightly to the left, to the Latin Missal
and Breviary section, took one look at the stocky man in
cassock, double-breasted coat and round black saturno hat,
and announced: "Si, Signore."
I quickly climbed down, wiped my hands on a towel,
and walked over to pay my respects to Cardinal Pericles
Felici, the President of the Pontifical Commission for the
Revision of the Code of Canon Law. Coincidentally, this
was the first Roman clergyman I had ever met, right outside
this very bookstore, when I was seventeen.
"Laudetur Jesus Christus," I greeted him.
"Nunc et usque in aeternum," the cardinal responded,
even before turning to see who it was. But, when he did
turn and to see, the smile was immediate, full and real.
"Charlie!" he exclaimed, "Just a moment ago," he
pointed upward and rightward, "was that you up there?"
I apologized for my appearance. He was used to seeing
me in cassock, starched Roman collar, and black leather
shoes —but for this cleaning assignment I was wearing
jeans and a sweatshirt. He completely understood (or said
he did) and laughed (or, at least, chuckled) it off.
"I still haven't gotten over your ordination," he
declared.
FROM A DISTANT COUNTRY • 145*
"Yes," I willingly concurred, "Beautiful, wasn't it? Your

Eminence and Archbishop Gagnon helped make it..."
"Beautiful, most certainly," he interrupted, "but I was
referring to the physical nightmare of getting to the church!"
He remembered, shook his head, looked heavenward, and
sighed,".. .Madonna Santa! What a day, that day! Student
rioters... Delinquenti! Teppisti! [Criminals! Thugs!] They
were protesting the death of a Roman student, 'Valter'
Something-or-other. The mob engulfed our car! They were
rocking it and shouting. Had it not been for Monsignor
Marini's quick thinking and bravery, I don't know how it
would have ended! This made us arrive five minutes late.
Everyone waiting for us, ... Me, the only Italian I know
who arrives ten minutes early for everything! Gagnon
would have had to proceed without us. I still don't know
how I got through the Mass and ordination."
"Do you know," he added pensively, "I learned
something that day. When you see and hear Communist
thugs conglomerating and yelling at the top of their lungs:
'VALTER VIVE! VALTER VIVE!! VIVA VALTER!!!'
[WALTER LIVES! WALTER LIVES!! LONG LIVE
WALTER!!!]" he discreetly imitated the protesters' cries,
"you can deduce one thing, and one thing only."
"And that is?" I took the bait.
"That whoever Valter once was, now Valter is dead!"
Of course, with the death of Pope John Paul fresh in
everyone's mind, we spoke about his brief pontificate.
"Speaking of brief, Eminence," I segued, "the day after
the Holy Father died Vatican Radio transmitted the briefest
interview I have ever heard. Until then, I considered
'nessun commento' [no comment] the shortest brush-off
anyone could give to an annoying reporter. But 'Che colpo!'
[What a blow!] beats that by ...," I stopped and did a rapid
finger tally,"... by six letters! That 'brief'comment had to
be a record-breaker!"
"A major figure? And that's all he had to say?" Felici

wondered.
"Yes," I continued, "and as he was the last person to
see and speak with the Holy Father, you'd think he'd have
more than two measly words to share with a world in
shock."
The smile on Felici's usually amiable face evaporated.
With unobtrusive but definite force he took me by the arm
and guided me to the furthest comer of the bookstore.
"How do you know this?" he demanded.
"I heard it myself. Those two exact words where the
full extent of His Eminence, Cardinal Baggio's interview
on Radio Vaticana," I answered.
"No, no, not that," he said dismissively, "that the
person interviewed..."
"Cardinal Baggio," I affirmed.
"Yes, him. That he was the last to see and speak with
the Holy Father. How do you know that?"
I excused myself, walked over to Carlo's register and
took a magazine from the lower shelf. I returned, magazine
in hand, to the waiting cardinal, opened TIME to page
sixty-eight, and pointed to the second paragraph in column
two.
Cardinal Felici read it without commenting.
"Ma!" he finally grumbled, "What importance can we
give the press, today?" he seemed to dismiss TIME'S claim
that "on that evening, [i.e, the pope's last on earth] Cardinal
Sebastiano Baggio, Prefect for the Sacred Congregation for
Bishops, was summoned by the pope to discuss pressing
business." (No other publication recorded that detail.)
As we ended our conversation, it occurred to me that
Cardinal Felici was the man who would announce the
name of the new pope after the conclave. Recalling the
papal candidate that Giovanni Benelli had pinned his hopes
on, and that Cardinal Felici had pronounced the student's
FROM A DISTANT COUNTRY • 147
Pericle Cardinal Felici

name as "Valter", I was tempted to say: "Remember now:

the' W' in Polish is pronounced the same as the' V' in Latin;
'V', as in "WALTER."
But I did not.
* * * * *
"Il fumo bianco! Fumo bi-an-co! [White smoke!]"

Monsignor Marini screamed in my ear. It was the evening
of October 16, the second day of the conclave.
I grabbed my binoculars, jumped into my car, zipped
down the Gianicolo, and made my way to St. Peter's Square.
As one in this crowd of some two hundred thousand from
every part of the world, I felt as I sensed each of them did:
proudly Catholic and absolutely at home in this sea of
people who did not know one another but felt more like
family than like strangers. I stood near the colossal statue
of St. Peter clutching his keys, anxiously waiting to learn
the identity of his latest successor.
Early that very morning, while Gagnon, Marini, and I
vested for Mass, the archbishop had invited us to keep the
success of the conclave in our intentions.
"I pray for the election every day," I told him honestly,
"that God's will be done." "The will of God. By all means...,"
Gagnon replied with the tone of an understanding father,
"... the will of God. But given the circumstances, would it
hurt to be a little bit more specific? Everyone wants God's
will to be done. Should we not pray, then, for our friend,
a man with the intelligence and courage to see that it will
be?"
"Cardinal Benelli?" I inquired needlessly.
"Yes," Gagnon answered me, "May his candidate be
in complete conformity to God's holy will," Gagnon said
and blessed himself.
FROM A DISTANT COUNTRY • 149.
"And may our will be God's," Marini whispered to me

and concluded with a solid "Amen."
As we celebrated the holy sacrifice of the Mass, each
of us silently offered the intentions dearest to our hearts.
I am sure Édouard Gagnon prayed for the day to arrive
when he could sit down with the new pope and present
his final investigative report. And, as a man specific in his
upward pleadings, he probably prayed that the reform of
the Vatican be done properly, under the direct supervision
of its new Secretary of State, Cardinal Giovanni Benelli.
No doubt Mario Marini's private prayer was for his
swift reinstatement in the Vatican Secretariat. He had
reason to be hopeful that this would come to pass if
Giovanni Benelli replaced Jean Villot as Secretary of State.
My prayer for myself was insignificant compared
to those of my seniors: I prayed to finish my doctorate
successfully. I also considered my prayer much easier to
answer than theirs: mine did not require the intervention
of Cardinal Giovanni Benelli!
My thoughts returned to the present moment as I stood
waiting with the crowd. Evening gave way to night and
powerful spotlights aimed at the balcony gave a forceful
air of drama to what was unfolding. As the curtains up
in the loggia were pulled back, I raised my binoculars to
watch every magnified movement of this larger-than-life
moment.
The huge glass-paneled doors of the basilica's central
balcony opened fully to reveal a glimmering processional
cross emerging, held high by a nervous young acolyte.
Behind the cross, a trio of acolytes appeared around
Cardinal Pericles Felici. Before he pronounced the
formulaic words that everyone waited anxiously to hear,
he looked out over the immense crowd, obviously moved
by the sight, and seemed to be studying it.
He read from the large, red-covered Caeremoniale:
"Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum..he declared,

and immediately the crowd exploded into wild applause
and cries of "Viva il Papa!!"
Again, the stocky cardinal studied the sea of humanity
before him, as if attempting to etch this magnificent
moment in his memory and keep it alive forever. I saw
it in his expression and heard it in his voice. He seemed
acutely aware of the singular honor bestowed upon him
at this moment in history.
".. .Habemus Papam!" he picked up where he had left
off.
The crowd went even wilder, with louder cheers,
and more thunderous applause! Felici continued: "...
Eminentissimum ac reverendissimum Dominum...
Carolum...
"'V' as in 'Walter', Eminence," I smiled and said to
myself.
"Who did he say?!" a woman loudly asked anyone who
might know.
"...Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae, Cardinalem Wojtyla."
"Wojtyla?!" was the name on the lips of two hundred
thousand people around me, and God only knew how
many hundreds of millions more throughout the world.
There was general confusion as to just who this new
pontiff could be.
"Africain? Un pape africain!" exclaimed a French
couple directly behind me.
I turned and offered a friendly correction: "Pas africain,"
I said, "Polonais. De Cracovie. De Pologne," I repeated this,
but apparently left them both unconvinced.
People continued streaming into the Square, the crowd
now numbering well over two hundred thousand. Many
hugged, some - perhaps Polish or from Eastern Bloc
countries - cried, others waved white handkerchiefs, some
FROM A DISTANT COUNTRY • 151*
children and teenagers actually jumped for joy, one couple

kissed.
"Blessed be God," I said to myself, half in prayer, half
sighing with relief.
Although I had been told repeatedly by my friends that
Cardinal Benelli's candidate, Karol Jozef Wojtyla, would
be elected, until this moment, when I heard Cardinal Felici
announce the Polish cardinal's name from the balcony
of Saint Peter's Basilica, I was not one-hundred percent
convinced.
Within minutes, Karl Wojtyla, who had taken his
predecessor's name, John Paul, appeared for the first
time as pope. The cheering and applauding grew and
grew. Without a doubt Pope John Paul the Second's short
introductory discourse from the balcony endeared him to
countless millions.
It was time to hurry back home and toast the new
pontiff with a shot of Archbishop Gagnon's Colombian
aguardiente.
I drove as fast as I could, all the way anticipating the
smiles, congratulatory abrazos, and maybe even a tear
or two, from my friends and brothers, Édouard Gagnon
and Mario Marini. Could Archbishop Gagnon expect a
telephone call that very night?
152* MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
• 153.
the archbishop acts

January 15,1979
Christmastide had come and gone. In fact, we were

two weeks into the new year, 1979; three months, to the
day, into the Wojtyla pontificate, and yet Archbishop
Gagnon had not been called to present his Roman Curia
investigation results. This, in spite of various attempts by
Cardinal Giovanni Benelli to procure a meeting between
the Pope and the Archbishop.
When Pope John Paul II reconfirmed Archbishop
Édouard Gagnon as President of the Pontifical Committee
for the Family, he sent word to him that he looked forward
to a private meeting with him "to discuss important affairs
of State." The meeting, however, would have to wait until
after his return from Mexico —after February first.
I considered this good news, but no one else, including
Archbishop Édouard Gagnon, shared my optimism.
And while the Holy Father's confirmation of Gagnon as
President of the Pontifical Committee for the Family was
very good news, the very bad news was that the new pope
had reconfirmed everyone else in the Roman Curia to the
very same position he had under Pope Paul VI. In other
words, Cardinal Sebastiano Baggio was still in charge of
the world's bishops, and his friend, Cardinal Jean Villot,
remained Vatican Secretary of State.
It was around this time that I decided to arrange a dinner
in honor of Archbishop Gagnon on his sixty-first birthday.
I picked a place to lift our spirits, at least for a few hours:
.154. THE GODMOTHER
Saint Pope John Paul II

THE ARCHBISHOP ACTS .155«
Fantasie di Trastevere. Monsignor Marini demurred: "First

of all, even if Gagnon agrees, you're not dragging me into a
Trastevere cabaret for the night!" I made a sour face, "What
'cabaret?' Fantasie is a fine old theater from the 1800's,
converted into a restaurant with great food and a 'musical
revue'. And the music and singing are outstanding."
"And the women half-naked," he objected.
It took me a minute to stop laughing.
"Listen, I went there once with some American friends.
The youngest woman I remember on stage was a soprano
in her early forties. I think you're man enough to handle the
temptation," I said and started laughing again. "It's mostly
Italian music from the 30's and 40's —with an occasional
tenor singing a piece from the belle époque." All of the
sudden, Marini thought Fantasie was a great idea.
When we arrived on Sunday evening, January 14,1979,
the proprietor escorted us to a secluded balcony, stage left.
We could speak freely there. It was plain to see that both
my friends liked the place —a lot.
"I invited Zannoni and Lobina," I said as soon as we
were seated.
"Let me guess," Mario put both elbows on the table and
pretended to ponder for a moment. "Lobina said, T have
too much work to do on Mario's legal case,"' my friend
said in Sardinian-accented Italian, "'besides, I have an early
morning lecture to deliver at the Laterano, and must be my
brilliant self; my students demand it of me!"' Gagnon and
I laughed at his imitation of the lawyer. "Zannoni, on the
other hand, told you that it was too late at night for him,
that he retires early — while the truth of it is, he never goes
anywhere where he might feel uncomfortable in cassock
and collar."
Of course, Mario was absolutely correct in both cases,
and we all shared a good laugh. "Regardless," I said,
"They both send birthday greetings and prayers your way,
.156* MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
Monseigneur." "Good men, both of them," Gagnon said

with the satisfaction of a man blessed in his friendships.
"Zannoni is the real deal, a true saint. God bless him."
"So that leaves us," Mario said as he filled our glasses
with the deep red of Montepulciano. "To you, Monsignore,"
Mario began the toast and we raised our glasses, "For all
you have given to His Church, and all you have done for
her over your lifetime. May God reward you a hundredfold
in this life and grant you heaven forever after. And to our
friendships," he added and gave each of us an individual
nod of acknowledgement, "God's greatest gift to us mere
mortals! Happy birthday!"
After several minutes of small talk, I took a sip of wine,
cleared my voice and blurted out: "Speaking of Cardinal
Benelli, has anyone heard from the good man lately?"
Mario Marini gave his "Gna, gna, gna," low-laugh,
"You know, Monsignore," he looked Gagnon squarely in
the eyes, "Questi Americani," he smiled, "It's what I've
always admired about them; no standing on ceremony.
No, signore! It's right down to business."
"Well, yes," Édouard Gagnon said, "I spoke with him
just last Thursday. He's trying to arrange the audience with
the pope, so I can deliver and explain the Visitation report."
"That's great news!" I exclaimed.
"It would have been great news," the archbishop
qualified, "had it happened before the Holy Father told
everyone to stay right where he was —in his same office,
with his same job. And that meeting might have happened
sooner had the Holy Father not reconfirmed Villot as his
Secretary of State."
"Who can understand that move?" I asked.
"I can understand it," Gagnon said, "I don't agree with
it, but I understand it."
"What do you mean, you understand it?" I asked.
Whenever Jean Villot was brought up, it unnerved
THE ARCHBISHOP ACTS • 157.
Marini, but right now he was calm. "The Holy Father

learned what Villot himself only learned a few weeks ago.
Villot has inoperable lung cancer... The doctors give him
less than six months. Casaroli's picking up the slack. He
phoned me on Thursday to tell me that the audience will
have to wait - until the pope returns from Mexico."
"And that will be?" I asked.
"The first of February," Mario answered at once.
"The first of February," Édouard Gagnon repeated
cheerlessly. "I'm afraid of what Villot and Casaroli are
planning..."
"You mean plotting," Mario corrected.
"I'm afraid of what they've got a mind to do, and very
soon; a thing that would have far-reaching consequences."
"And that would be?" I asked.
"Convincing our new pope to make a smooth transition
from Secretary of State Villot to Secretary of State Casaroli
—sidestepping Benelli completely."
"God forbid such a calamity from happening," Marini
shuddered at the thought of it. "Bad enough that the pope
kept 'Brother Jean and Brother Sebastiano' in the first
place," he declared, referring to their alleged Masonic
associations, "But for the pope to let that man name his
own successor is, is, well..." Knowing Mario, I realized he
wasn't searching for the right word, but rather eliminating
several words readily at his disposal out of respect for the
Holy Father. "Well,... it would be colossally imprudent."
"Imprudent?" I repeated and, without giving it a
second, "more prudent," thought, I blurted out what
Mario had certainly eliminated in his mental gymnastics:
"Pendejez imperdonable! [Unpardonable stupidity]!"
"Excuse me, Monseigneur," Mario jumped in, "I agree
with what Charlie's trying to say. You know better than
anyone that Villot should have been thanked for his years
of service to Montini, given a pat on the head and sent back
to Lyons. Benelli should have taken the reins immediately

— day one of Papa Wojtyla's pontificate. Not only did
the pope reconfirm every member of the corrupt Vatican
government in his place, but now this?! That it's even
being considered is beyond belief... You've got to get that
audience with the pope before it's too late to do anything;
before it's all lost."
An uncomfortable silence fell upon that table in the
first balcony, stage left. Visibly upset, irritated, Archbishop
Édouard Gagnon pursed his lips tightly and said nothing. I
wasn't sure if it was because of my disrespectful remark or
because he was being prevented from seeing the pope and
presenting the investigation report in full. I had seen my
Canadian friend like this once before. It was like watching
an active volcano that by some miracle of nature did not
erupt.
Then, a veritable godsend to break the tension. The
entire ensemble of singers was front stage, center: soprano
and tenor and eight men and women, began a full-throated
rendition of La Romanina, then Quanto Sei Bella Roma, two
of Gagnon's folkloric favorites. The final tension breaker
arrived in the guise of a beautiful young lady descending
from on high, seated on a swing, and clad in turn-of-the-
century hat and dress, as La Romanina segued into La
Spagnola. Singing was Gagnon's one delightful weakness.
Both he and I knew the lyrics to the old Neapolitan song,
and Marini knew better than to destroy the moment by
attempting to join in.
While Édouard Joseph Gagnon was almost back to his
old self - at least not half as perturbed as he had been
twenty minutes previously —to get his thoughts off what
we had managed getting them onto, Mario gave a brief
progress report on his own plight and then began talking
about a very interesting avenue that just might be open
to him in his quest to have his case heard sometime this
century.
THE ARCHBISHOP ACTS • 159.
"A mysterious, middle-aged woman showed up last

Friday at the Congregation for the Clergy and asked to
speak with Monsignor Guglielmo Zannoni," Marini began,
"Seems she — well, not really she herself, but a very close
friend of hers ~ had corresponded with Zannoni many
years ago regarding a matter of great personal significance
to the woman."
"And?" I encouraged that him to continue.
"Well, years ago her friend, a Polish doctor, married,
with four children, had been diagnosed with cancer and
given very little time to live. She had a very close friend,
a young priest who had just been made auxiliary bishop
of Cracow. Through a student priest in Rome at the time,
Bishop Wojtyla discovered that Zannoni was a friend of
Padre Pio of Pietrelcina."
"Our Monsignor Zannoni? He knew Padre Pio?"
"They were good friends," Gagnon said.
"Bishop Wojtyla wrote a letter to Padre Pio asking a
miracle for this woman with a husband and four little
children to care for. She was one of his dearest and closest
friends in the world and he asked Padre Pio to storm
heaven for this particular favor. Wojtyla sent the letter to
Monsignor Zannoni and asked him to get it to Padre Pio
as soon as possible and to make sure he read it. Zannoni in
turn gave the letter to a friend of his, Archbishop Battisti,
who was in charge of Padre Pio's hospital, and he did
exactly as the young bishop asked. Faithfully."
"Wow!" I exclaimed, authentically impressed, "And
she was cured of the cancer?"
"Zannoni tells me that hers is one of the miracles
being examined for Padre Pio's canonization cause. She
was literally on the operating table; the doctors hoped to
remove part of the tumor obstructing her internal organs.
As I say, moments before they cut her open, the same
-160- MURDER IN THE 33RD DEGREE
doctors who had found the tumors could find no trace of

them any longer. Not one blessed trace!"
"Her name," Gagnon smiled, "is Doctor Poltawska;
Doctor Wanda Poltawska."
"You know her?" Marini asked with surprise.
"I know of her —from Zannoni, of course. He tells
me that she's in Rome. Zannoni called and asked me if I
wanted to speak with Doctor Poltawska; that perhaps she
would speak to the pope about seeing me sooner rather
than later. I thanked him for his offer of help. But I've
decided to tackle this on my own." Then Gagnon asked
me, "Are you free tomorrow morning?"
"I'll make myself free," I answered.
"Good. If you could drive me to the Vatican, please,
around ten o'clock. I don't have an appointment, but I've
never needed one to perform a corporal work of mercy."
"Excellency?" I asked what he meant.
"I think I'll pay Cardinal Villot a visit, in person. I'll
walk into his office unannounced, and demand an official
and private audience with the pope. At the same time, I'll
be visiting the sick."
"Let's hope you don't leave him sicker than you found
him," Marini said.
The following morning, Monday, January 15, 1979,
was the third time in eight months that I was driving
Archbishop Édouard Joseph Gagnon to the Cortile San
Damaso, and all three times for the same reason: that the
Apostolic Visitor to the Roman Curia, commissioned by
Paul VI to conduct the most comprehensive investigation
into the central offices of the Catholic Church since their
establishment in 1588, might present the results of his
three-year study to the Pope.
Archbishop Eduard Gagnon looked very grave as I
drove him to his non-appointment with the dying Secretary
of State. I observed, "When Villot looks up and sees you
THE ARCHBISHOP ACTS • 161*
standing there, in the doorway to his office, the shock

might kill the poor fellow right then and there."
"You underestimate our French cardinal, my good Don
Carlo," Gagnon grinned, "A Canadian archbishop at his
door might get his attention briefly - and that archbishop
will have to talk fast if he wants his short message delivered
in full. The main thing I want to do this morning is register
a formal complaint against the Secretariat of State. I will
charge that the report delivered to Pope John Paul the First
has not been seen by Pope John Paul the Second; that the
Secretariat has withheld it from the new pope intentionally,
to prevent him from seeing for himself, firsthand, the
appalling state of the Roman Curia today."
"May I ask a question?"
"Certainly."
"Where is Cardinal Benelli in all of this? Why isn't he
rattling a few cages? Wojtyla was his man. What's more,
Wojtyla has even stated that he himself voted all the way
for Benelli! So where is Benelli? Why hasn't he stepped
up to the plate and helped you? Has he even been back in
Rome since the election?"
"Once, that I know of," Gagnon responded lugubriously.
"We met. We talked. We agreed: this pope is off to a very
bad start," he stated and shook his head, "Reappointing
every Curial department head to his same position — a
major mistake. He told me to phone Cardinal Villot and
to insist on an audience with the Holy Father. 'Alone,'
he cautioned. I have phoned his office several times. Left
messages. Nothing."
"No, no, no," he said, shaking his head. "It's an age-old,
ironclad rule: New pope, new Curia; new pontificate, new
administration. As President of the Committee for the
Family, I wrote out my resignation and sent it to the pope
the day after his election. He should have replaced me with
someone of his own liking, someone he knew personally
and trusted completely. Or, if he actually wanted me,
for me, he should have reconfirmed me - but me, as an

individual, not an across the board 'everybody, stay where
you are' confirmation! It's not only absurd and not done,
it's dangerous. And in the cases of Villot and Baggio, it
is extremely detrimental to keep them right where they
were... a terrible misstep... grave mistake. It's as if he
considers the Church's central government to be of tertiary
importance."
"Then, what do you consider his primary and secondary
concerns to be?"
Édouard Gagnon remained silent for a while. "Poland's
liberation from Communism is his primary concern... a
noble cause, to be sure, but not the reason he was elected
Pastor of the Church universal," he frowned.
"And in second place?"
"Traveling," he answered flatly. "He leaves for Mexico,
the Dominican Republic and the Bahamas in two weeks.
And I hear that Villot and Casaroli are already doing the
preliminaries for a trip to Poland. Again, very noble causes
—bringing the Lord and His Gospel to the poor but..."
"But?"
"Ou chat na rat regne," he responded in French.
"Yes," I agreed, "but while the cat's away, the rats have
their superiors to answer to, n'est pas?"
"You're French is good," he nodded and smiled. "And
your Latin, Don Carlo?"
"Go ahead," I laughed, "Hit me with all you've got!"
"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" the former Latin
professor put forth the question from Juvenal.
"Who guards..." I started off pretty well, I thought,
"themselves... guards well!?" I answered and asked at the
same time. I knew I had blown it.
"You proposed that the rats will obey their superiors."
"Yes?"
THE ARCHBISHOP ACTS • 163*
"And I ask you: 'Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?' — 'Who

will guard' — future tense," he corrected me, 'the guards
themselves?' You would leave the guards, Villot, Casaroli,
and Baggio, to guard themselves? Good gracious, man! I
can willingly overlook rusty Latin, but, Don Carlino, what
happened to your reasoning!?"
I laughed and looked over to see my Canadian friend
fighting off the temptation to smile.
We arrived at the Vatican and when we reached Cortile
San Damaso, I left Archbishop Gagnon off and watched
him walk toward the elevator to the Secretariat. I waited
for what I thought would be his swift return.
And I was right. In less than twenty minutes he was
back in the car.
"Was he surprised to see you?" I ask.
"I gave my name to the porter —of course, he
remembered me from my interview with him during the
investigation— and then I walked past him and straight
down to Villot's office. I was determined not to give him
the chance to tell the porter that he wasn't there, or that
he was busy. ... I take no delight in saying this, but when
he saw me standing in his doorway —I believe he was
inhaling at the time — the poor man went into a coughing
jag that took a full minute for him to get under control.
"The Holy Father will see me as soon as he returns from
Mexico," he added, very pleased with the day, indeed.
"That's sensational news. Sensational!"
For a moment neither of us spoke.
"You smoke, don't you?"
"Mostly when I write, but, yes, I do," I answered.
"What brand?"
"Parliaments," I answered.
"Promise me one thing, Don Carlo," he said almost
pleadingly.
"You know. Excellency, that if I can, I will."

"Don't worry," he rolled his eyes, "I won't ask you to
quit. But do promise me this: you'll never take up smoking
Gauloise!"
"You have my word on that!" I promised, and grinned.
• 165*
THE THIRD DELIVERY

ATTEMPT
February 6,197911
"Your Fiat might legally and technically require a

driver, Excellency," I said as I turned the ignition key, "but
I'll bet, if you asked it politely, it could find its own way
from here to the Holy Office gates* around the basilica, and
right up to the elevator landing in Cortile San Damaso."
"It's not a day for taking chances," he joshed back, "I'd
still rather you drive," he said with a smile, "It's slightly
safer and if anyone can make up for lost time, it's Don
Carlo."
This was the third time that Archbishop Édouard Joseph
Gagnon was meeting with a pope to present and discuss
the results of his investigation of the Roman Curia. I always
gave us ample traveling time, but the phone call threw us
off. Sister Jean de la Croix stopped us as we were leaving
the house to tell Archbishop Gagnon that the Archbishop
of Florence, Cardinal Benelli, was on the phone and asked
to speak with him. Naturally, Gagnon took what turned
out to be a ten-minute call.
"I'll get you there on time," I told him, "But please, no
complaints about the short-cuts."
"I had to take his call. It was very important."
"No doubt, it was, Excellency," I answered, "I just don't
1 Author's Note: In an interview with Inside the Vatican in November,

2020,1 mistakenly said that the meeting between Pope St. John Paul
II and Archbishop Gagnon took place in October, 1978.
• 166« MURDER IN THE33RD DEGREE
want you late for a private papal audience that you've been
waiting for since the sixteenth of October, 1978!"
"Almost four months," he sighed, "Four months for the
busy scoundrels desperate to cover their tracks. It seems
our Nuncio to Iran has an urgent need 'to explain himself'
to the new pontiff; he cannot wait until diplomatic protocol
calls him to Rome. It has to be now."
"Bugnini?"
"The same. And the same advocating for him."
"Cardinal Villot," I stated rather than asked.
"Cardinals Villot and Baggio," he corrected, "They
want him back in Rome, if you can imagine such a thing.
They want the pope to receive him and say: 'All is forgiven;
we've killed the fatted calf; come home, dear son.'"
"But he's a Freemason," I protested strongly, "Why
they sent him to Iran instead of straight to hell makes no
sense to me. It never has, and it never will."
"I explained all that to you, already," said the
archbishop, "It was done to avoid further scandal. That,
at least, was the answer I received when I ask the very
same question you just asked —the very same question
Cardinal Staffa asked... and Cardinal Oddi asked... and
Benelli asked."
Upon arrival, it was the same routine. We were waved
through the narrow archways and saluted by the Swiss
Guards when entering San Damaso Courtyard. I opened
the passenger door and helped Gagnon out. It was February
and there was a cold wind in the air. Upon his shoulders,
over his purple-piped cassock, sash and zucchetto, I put his
black woolen overcoat. I did not hand him his black leather
book bag, but rather carried it for him as I accompanied
him to the elevator. Unlike my previous attempts to help
him with these weighty and explosive documents, this time
he accepted the favor without protest.
In cassock and collar, and knowing my way around
THE THIRD DELIVERY ATTEMPT • 167»
perfectly well, with the guard's permission I left the car

parked to one side of the courtyard and proceeded to the
Instituto per le Opere di Religione, a.k.a., the Vatican Bank,
to withdraw some needed funds from my account.
The Catholic world may have changed popes three
times since last I saw the Bank President, Archbishop
Paul Marcinkus, but you certainly wouldn't know it by
the looks of him and those around him. I walked past his
open office door and saw him, seated behind his desk, in
the middle of a phone conversation. Nothing had really
changed. Nothing, it seemed, ever would, or ever could.
Everything was as everything always was. It was as Mario
Marini always said: "Popes come and go; the Roman Curia
remains."
Would what Archbishop Gagnon was presenting at this
very moment to the new pope change anything? I hoped
so. I really hoped so. After I finished my business in the
bank, not knowing how long Archbishop Gagnon would
be with the Holy Father, I returned to the car to be ready
and waiting for him the moment he appeared.
Having finished Lauds and Lectio Divina, I was almost
through a third rosary when the shrill sound of the guard's
metal whistle got my attention. I got out of the car and
hurried toward Gagnon to take his much lighter bag.
Very out of character for him, he said nothing until we
were in the car.
"Please, Don Carlo, would you be so kind as to take me
right home —the sooner we get there, the better."
And then there was total silence — a silence I respected
and guarded almost as a sacred duty. Did I understand it?
I clearly interpreted his tone, his expression, and his silence
symptomatic of a migraine headache. I deduced that the
audience between the Apostolic Visitor and the new pope
had not gone as he had hoped. Without moving my head,
I caught glimpses of my friend's pained expression and I
could see that the audience had gone very poorly —no,
the audience had been a disaster.
The archbishop broke his silence as we neared the
residence.
"Could I impose on you one last time, Don Carlo?"
"No such thing exists when it comes to helping you,
Excellency. Tell me."
"I want you to drive me to the airport tomorrow."
"You're taking a trip?"
"I'm leaving Rome —leaving the Vatican. Let them
wallow in their corruption if that be their will. As for me,
I will not be a part of it one day longer."
"But, Excellency," I began.
"Save it, Don Carlo. My mind is made up. Are you free
tomorrow?"
"You can count on me," I said as a sadness began to
invade me.
We arrived home. Gagnon went directly to his room,
without lunch, to lie down.
I followed his example.
THE THIRD DELIVERY ATTEMPT .169«
Archbishop Paul Marcinkus

.171’
A MORE CIVILIZED JUNGLE
amore civilized
JUNGLE
February 8,1979
It was only nine-thirty that Thursday morning, and

although Archbishop Gagnon's flight for New York wasn't
scheduled to depart until one-thirty in the afternoon, he
was anxious to get going. I thought I understood: the good
man had made up his mind, and now all he wanted was
the greatest distance between himself and anything even
remotely reminiscent of the Vatican and its Roman Curia.
Being forced into such close proximity these past years
with the rotting underbelly of the beast, and all to no avail,
was too much even for the strongest man of faith to endure.
This kind of devil - as his Colombian friends were fond of
saying —had no mother.
"OK, then," he said as he gave the final once-over to his
room, "That, as they say, is that!" With a quick and satisfied
nod of the head, he bent to pick up his only suitcase, but I
fought him for it and won.
"You've got all your travel documents and tickets in
your briefcase, right?" I asked.
"All present and accounted for, sir," he said in his best
American accent.
"You know, Excellency, it's too soon to be leaving for
the airport right now. I don't want you sitting alone for
three hours. Why don't we go to the café around the comer
for coffee and a chat?"
He pursed his lips together, as he always did when he

was about to propose something.
"I have another favor to ask of you, Don Carlo. Just
imagine: when you drop me off at the airport, you'll finally
be free of this troublesome old man."
"Don't say that, Excellency, even in jest. Besides, since
when do sixty-one years 'an old man make'? What is it
you need done?"
"Very well, then. Let me take full advantage of your
noble generosity," he said and again pursed his lips, "...I
wanted to leave a littler earlier today because I need to pay
one final visit — a visitafinale — to the Vatican Secretariat."
"Seems like only yesterday," I joked.
"No," he smiled, "It was twice as long as that; it was
the day before yesterday," he laughed, "We have time for
that, no?"
"We have time for that, yes," I confirmed.
"There's another small errand I would like you to run
for me - but I can explain that in the car, on the way to
ViUot"
"You're going to see Cardinal Villot?"
"Well, yes, sort of," he said and looked around the
room one last time. "Plenty of good talks within these four
walls, no?"
"To be sure," I agreed.
"I left you what remains of the aguardiente. There should
be enough for two drinks to my safe return to Colombia.
Maybe you and Mario would drink to that before you retire
tonight?"
"We're going to miss you a lot, Excellency," I said and
felt a tightening in my throat that didn't permit me to speak
another word.
A knock on the open door revealed a small committee of
well-wishers headed by our very own Archbishop Hilarion
A MORE CIVILIZED JUNGLE • 173.
Capucci, fully attired right down to the brass-knobbed

walking-stick. Behind him stood the house superior. Soeur
Jean de la Croix, the greatest cook in the entire Near East,
Soeur Olga, and the kindly nun who tended to the priests'
rooms, Soeur Marina. Archbishop Capucci delivered a
short discourse in French and the sisters, one by one, said
their tearful goodbyes to one of the saintliest, kindest,
cheerful, and least demanding clerics they had ever known.
As we walked down the corridor to the elevator, I
pretended not to notice the tears in Archbishop Gagnon's
eyes.
And so we began our last drive to the Cortile San Damaso.
As we passed the Swiss Guards at the Holy Office gates
of Vatican City, and headed to the final climb around the
basilica, from the vest pocket of his black coat Édouard
Joseph Gagnon took out a sealed envelope and clutched
it in his hands.
As soon as I had pulled right up to the steps to the
elevator landing, as I was about to get out and open the
archbishop's door for him, Gagnon took my right forearm
with his left hand to stop me and with his right hand
handed me the mysterious white envelope.
"I knew there was something I'd forgotten to ask you,"
he said with a mischievous smile, "Would you be so kind
as to take this up to the Secretariat? Tell the porter at the
desk that Archbishop Gagnon asks that it be delivered
immediately to His Eminence, Cardinal Villot, and to His
Eminence alone."
"But Excellency," I began to protest, "Look at me;" I
said, "in khakis and a sweatshirt! I can't just waltz into the
Secretariat looking like this! Why didn't you say something
while we were at home? I could have..."
"Because you'd have put on a cassock and a fresh
starched collar. No," he said emphatically, "I'm asking you
to deliver this just as you are. Nothing special. It's Jean Villot
you might run into; not the King of Denmark, Charlie," he

instructed and, one of the rarest times since he'd ordained
me, called me by my first name; my nickname.
"But what am I supposed to say? What if Villot is there
and asks me something? What if he asks me where you
are?"
'You tell him, please," he politely added and with the
slightest bow of the head, "that I am in my car in the Cortile
San Damaso, and am on my way to Leonardo Da Vinci
Airport."
"But..."
"I want nothing more to do with the Secretariat of State
or with its Prefect. I don't want to go up there, nor do I
want anyone from on high lowering himself by coming to
me. Period. Can you do this for me, Charlie? Do you think
you can handle it?"
"You're sure this is what you want?"
"Quite sure, thank you."
I shook my head and had to take a deep breath. Then I
started to put the car in reverse to park it where I always
did, next to the courtyard's side wall.
"No need for that," Gagnon said with a dismissive
wave of his hand, "I'll wait for you right here. It shouldn't
take but five minutes. Please, just see that Villot gets my
letter of resignation and let's get out of here."
Before I knew it, I was inside the wood-paneled elevator,
standing between two well-dressed Monsignori, with my
head down, hoping that no one from the Information
Office or anyone else I knew saw me. I felt I was actually
in a dream I used to have occasionally, where I arrived at
school only to realize, before God and the world, that I'd
forgotten to put on my pants that morning!
I walked the long loggia with quickened pace and
lowered gaze, as if I were a worker examining the marble
floors for cracks. When I arrived to the reception area, I
A MORE CIVILIZED JUNGLE • 175.
stood before the seated, middle-aged porter, the same man

that Mario Marini never trusted. It was easy to see why.
His "antipatico" was glaringly evident. I remembered him
well enough, and, at this uncomfortable moment, hoped
he did not remember me.
"Buongiomo, Signore/' I began.
“And to you, sir," he answered.
"I have a letter from His Excellency, Archbishop
Édouard Gagnon to the Secretary of State, His Eminence,
Cardinal Jean Villot. The archbishop instructs me to deliver
it to His Eminence and requests that he open and read it
immediately." I then repeated with added gravitas: "The
contents are meant for the eyes of His Eminence alone."
The porter took the envelope.
"Wait here," he said, "Take a seat," he said and pointed
to several chairs lined against the wall in the less than
spacious room.
"I prefer to stand, thank you."
This was the first time in almost a year that I had
returned to the Secretariat. It was a strange, unsure
feeling to be standing there now. Benelli was no longer
the powerhouse "in charge of the world" —and, from
what the new pontiff led Gagnon to believe, he would
not be returning again, even after the imminent demise of
Villot. Zannoni was no longer here, since Villot had him
transferred to the Congregation for the Clergy. Of course,
since Villot had dismissed the "Benelli spy," Mario Marini
was absent as well.
I was uncomfortable at standing there not properly
attired; more, I was extremely ill at ease being there at all.
I decided that I had completed what I was sent to do and
had waited long enough.
I turned and walked out through the ancient doorway
to the wide loggia whose tall, solid wall of windows bathed
the entire Apostolic Palace in brilliant sunlight. On my
way down the corridor, I looked up at the Renaissance

ceiling and fondly remembered Mario Marini, years ago,
explaining each panel of the road to salvation, one way,
and the road to perdition, the other.
"Where is he?" I heard a loud, unhappy voice.
"He was here a moment ago, Your Eminence," the
unfriendly porter answered.
"You there!" the porter's voice rang out more clearly.
As I was the only person in the loggia at the moment,
I stopped, turned, and saw the porter standing ten feet
away; next to him, haggard-looking and scowling, stood
His Eminence, Cardinal Jean Villot.
"Did you mean me, Signore?" I asked in the meekest
voice I could muster.
"His Eminence wants a word with you."
I walked back to where he stood as the porter slid back
to his post.
"Where is he?" snapped Villot.
"Archbishop Gagnon?" I asked like a lost simpleton.
"Of course, Gagnon. Where is he?" he demanded.
"In his car. In the cortile."
"Tell him to come to my office at once."
I found both the man's tone and attitude offensive,
and I could feel my own temperature rising. I struggled
to keep my head because I wanted to represent Archbishop
Édouard Gagnon the way he deserved to be represented.
"With all due respect, Your Eminence, His Excellency
declines your invitation."
"Declines my invitation!? I made no —no invitation!"
he sputtered, "Tell him he's to report to my office at once.
Now!" he demanded and immediately went into a fit of
deep coughing —so much so that the porter returned with
a glass of water and a handkerchief. It was no act; this was
a very sick man.
A MORE CIVILIZED JUNGLE • 177-
When he regained control of himself, I assured him

that the archbishop would not come up; that he refused
to speak with him or anyone else from his department.
"And just who are you?" he asked and coughed several
more times. "I, I know you. From where do I know you?"
he asked and then put the handkerchief to his mouth.
"I can't imagine, Your Eminence," I answered as
politely as I could, "I don't recall ever having made your
acquaintance."
"Where is he going?" Villot managed to get out.
"I'm not sure," I shrugged my shoulders, "He
mentioned something about returning to Colombia —to
the 'much more civilized jungles' of Colombia, he called
them. And you know, of course, how devoted he is to the
Sacred Heart of Jesus. Maybe those facts will narrow down
your search efforts."
Cardinal Villot's eyes widened and again he began
coughing, much more violently than before. "Can I get you
something, Eminence?" I asked obligingly. "Shall I call a
priest?" I meant one of the dozens of clerics who staffed his
Secretariat, but his expression suggested I meant a priest to
give him the last rites. The porter returned and took him
by the arm, but Villot shooed him away as he continued
coughing into the white cloth over his nose and mouth.
Taking this as a most opportune moment to leave, I
bowed and bid him: "Addio e buona continuazione [Goodbye
and may everything go along well for you ]," then turned, and
made my way to the waiting elevator.
Naturally, as soon as I got back behind the wheel of
Gagnon's Fiat Mirafiori and pulled out of the Cortile San
Damaso, I commenced a detailed report of my adventure
upstairs and Cardinal Jean Villot's reaction to the
archbishop's letter. I made it a lively narrative, hoping to
lift his spirits; and, as hard as he tried not to smile, more
than once he failed. Nor could he hold back a chuckle over
my suggestion that I call a priest for the cardinal. However,

as much as both of us had reason to dislike the Frenchman
—Gagnon far more than me - neither he nor I took the
least bit of pleasure in his worsening health. In fact, when
Archbishop Gagnon said most earnestly that he would
offer his next Mass for the cardinal's spiritual and physical
wellbeing, I agreed to do the same.
From the Via Aurelia we got onto the highway and were
within twenty minutes of our destination.
"May I ask you a question?" I asked my passenger.
"Of course," he answered, "What is it?"
"Last night, at the trattoria, you said there was something
else you told the Holy Father in your audience with him.
Not about the bank. Not about Baggio. There was a third
major topic you brought up with him."
"How attentive you are to detail, Don Carlo," he
smiled and paused before continuing to speak, "Yes. It
was something that was not part of my investigation... In
fact, I was only informed of it the night before my audience
with the Holy Father."
Though he did not say it, I assumed it was something
important communicated to him in one of the several
last-minute calls to and from Cardinal Giovanni Benelli.
"I informed His Holiness of a foiled plot to assassinate
him," he said in very matter of fact fashion, "and that his
life was in constant danger from enemies from behind the
iron curtain."
"Holy Mother!" I exclaimed.
"He doubted the veracity of the claim. He asked
me, in all seriousness: 'Who in the world would want
to kill the Pope of Rome?' He completely dismissed it.
Can you imagine?" Gagnon was still flabbergasted at the
man's naïveté, "Without giving too much thought to the
matter, I could come up with a sizeable list of candidates,
AMORE CIVILIZED JUNGLE .179*
many inside the Vatican itself, who would like to see him
eliminated already! God save the Church..."
A curious melancholy invaded our final moments
together. We hardly spoke until we reached the airport's
main terminal.
".. .And the car, Excellency?" I asked.
"Oh my, yes, the car!" he exclaimed, "Pierpaolo from
the office will be in touch with you. He'll come for it and
take it to the Vatican garage on the Via dei Corridori. Not
Trastevere; Via dei Corridori. You might remind him of that.
I'm so glad you thought of it! God help me, I'm getting so
forgetful."
"Only because you have a ton and a half of awful things
you had to learn —all of them crying to be forgotten and
never called to mind again!" I said gravely.
I got out of the car, popped the truck and took out his
one, heavy suitcase. I called a baggage-man with an empty
luggage trolley and paid him to accompany the archbishop
to his check-in desk.
"There are a lot of good people here who will miss
you tremendously. I will miss you especially, Excellency.
I admire your faith... your courage... your honesty and
your conviction...
"Will I ever see you again?" I asked, almost moved to
tears at the thought of losing this great man of God, this
wonderful defender of the faith.
"If God wills it, Charlie; if God wills it."
"Your blessing, please," I asked, and knelt to receive it.
As I watched him leaving, before he might forever be
lost from my sight, from somewhere just below my heart
came the urge to shout out: "Ef voila, Monseigneur...!"
The man in the floppy black hat and trench coat stopped
and turned back. He removed his hat and, waving it, smiled
and shouted back to me: ".. .pourquoi votre fille est muette!!"
Father Charles Theodore Murr

EPILOGUE
As I bring my chronicle to a close, I would like to inform

the reader briefly of the subsequent history of each of the
characters.
Cardinal Jean-Marie VILLOT, Secretary of the Vatican

State, friend to Sebastiano Baggio, enemy to Giovanni
Benelli, died (bronchial pneumonia; lung cancer) on March
9,1979, one month after being handed Edouard Gagnon's
letter of resignation.
Monsignor Mario MARINI was found not guilty of the

1978 charges leveled against him by then-Secretary of State
Cardinal Jean Villot. Pope John Paul II assigned Marini to
the Congregation for the Clergy, where he worked with
his friend and Secretary of that Congregation, Monsignor
Guglielmo Zannoni. Pope Benedict XVI named him
Secretary of the Sacred Congregation for Divine Worship
(ironically, the position held at one time by Annibale
Bugnini.) Pope Benedict also named him Secretary of the
Ecclesia Dei Commission, which was created to assist those
affiliated with Archbishop Marcel Lefevre to separate
themselves from the influence of the Society of St. Pius X
in order to be officially recognized by the Holy See. This
possibly was aimed at weakening the position of the SSPX,
but, paradoxically, by permitting the sacred patrimony
of the pre-conciliar liturgy to be more accessible to the

faithful, both the SSPX and the new groups of traditional
faithful flourished. In an effort to move him from Rome,
on two occasions Cardinal Baggio offered him prestigious
dioceses in northern Italy. Monsignor Marini declined. He
died of liver cancer, May 24,2009.
Archbishop Édouard Joseph GAGNON resigned as

President of the Pontifical Commission for the Family,
and left the Vatican to work among the poor in Colombia,
offering Mass, administering the Sacraments, and directing
spiritual retreats.
In early 1981, the Italian Secret Police informed Pope
John Paul II that in a raid on the Grand Masonic Lodge
[Propaganda Due (P2)], they uncovered a Masonic plot to
bankrupt the Vatican. In May of that same year, a would-be
assassin's bullets left the pontiff fighting for his life in the
Gemelli Hospital. When John Paul II regained consciousness
and the power of speech, it was said that the first two
words out of his mouth were: "F-i-n-d G-a-g-n-o-n..."
After an extensive search, Secretary of State Agostino
Casaroli located the Canadian prelate exactly where
he always said he would be, but the last place Vatican
bureaucracy thought to look for him: with the poor, deep
within the Colombian interior.
The archbishop flew back to Rome and met privately
with the pope. As he told me many times: "His Holiness
seemed much more interested in the results of my
investigation than he had been when last we spoke of
the same matters," [i.e., in 1979, two years prior to the
assassination attempt and the bank implosion].
Pope John Paul II wanted Archbishop Gagnon to return
to Rome, but (given all that he had come to know from
his investigation), the French-Canadian presented two
conditions for his return: the removal of Cardinal Baggio
from the Congregation for Bishops and of Bishop Paul
EPILOGUE • 183.
Marcinkus from the Vatican Bank. I was privileged to be

seated in Saint Peter's Square, right behind "my Canadian
Father," when, in the consistory of 1985, Pope John Paul
II placed a cardinal's red hat upon the head of Édouard
Joseph Gagnon.
We spoke for the last time on August 22, 2007. I
attended his Requiem in Notre Dame and burial at Le Grand
Séminaire de Montreal.
Cardinal Giovanni BENELLI was asked by Pope

John Paul II to serve as Vatican Secretary of State in 1982.
Cardinal Benelli willingly acceded to the pontiff's request
and returned to Florence to ready things for his departure
from the Archdiocese and his return to the Vatican
Secretariat. Ten days after his private audience with the
Holy Father - Gagnon himself told me - Giovanni Benelli
suffered a massive heart attack. He died in his residence
at sixty-one years of age.
Cardinal Sebastiano BAGGIO was prematurely

relieved of his position as Prefect of the Sacred
Congregation for Bishops in 1984, and was replaced by
Cardinal Giovanni Benelli's African friend and protégé,
Cardinal Bernard Gantin. Baggio was named President
of the Pontifical Commission for Vatican City State, an
appointment reported in the press as a clear demotion.
He died in 1993.
Archbishop Annibale BUGNINI remained in exile in

Iran for the remainder of his life. He did return to Rome
for medical reasons and died there on July 3,1982.
Archbishop Hilarion CAPUCCI and I met for breakfast

whenever I returned to Rome. The last time I saw him was
in 2016. My most memorable visit was in April, 1980. He
• 184« MURDER INTHE33RD DEGREE
asked me at breakfast to pray for a very special intention.

That evening on the news there was film of him blessing the
flag-draped caskets of the eight Marines killed in a failed
attempt to rescue 53 hostages in Tehran. He later explained
that President Carter, in a desperate effort to communicate
with the Ayatollah Khomeini, had telephoned Pope John
Paul. The Holy Father asked Archbishop Capucci to act.
With his blessing and the approval of the Syrian
Ambassador to the United Nations, I was allowed to write
a book (The Syrian) about a few very intense days in 1983
when he and I joined forces to ransom a kidnap victim in
Beirut. Archbishop Hilarion Capucci died in 2018 at his
home in EUR; he was 94 years old.
Father Charles Theodore MURR is the last man

standing of the characters in this book. He misses each
of those intriguingly remarkable people and those
extraordinary times. With great fondness he remembers
"the Roman years," and with singular affection and
longing, "the Year of the Three Popes."

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t^lurdev

Roman Poet and Satirist, First Century AD

Faithful Servant of Jesus Christ,

Murder in the Thirty-Third Degree - the title was too good

building of the Temple in Jerusalem, Freemasonry as we

inimical to Catholic faith, and that at worst some Masonic

many tenets and practices of Freemasonry are contrary

On 26 November 1983 the S. Congregation for

and Freemasonry are essentially irreconcilable, so

parts are now heard the objection that essential

Even if it is stated that relativism is not assumed

in such a radical way as to become unacceptable to

In this regard, the text also refers to the Declaration

The foregoing article expresses clearly the contemporary

threat of Freemasonry: not so much as an anti-clericalist

made known. To continue concealing them will only feed

There is a special magic about the first year after a man

and friends of a priest so singularly blessed. What makes

the service of God and His Church. We expect better from

is the need to address the objective reform of the central

A SEAT AT THE TABLE OF

to congratulate the man who for years had served as private

Giovanni Cardinal Benelli

with anticipatory delight, "The best tagliatelle ai porcini and

"I don't suppose they do. It's just that..."

noticed a second car, a navy-blue sedan, now parked near ours.

classicist, His Eminence," Benelli complimented Felici. "And

"Home," by the way, was the Lebanese Residence on

"At table," he answered straight away, "Monsignor

convictions. Remarkable," he said admiringly, "You have

larger-than-life, the other slightly "less large," were

Monsignor Mario Marini

years teaching theology in the regional seminary of

would not take no for an answer. He repeated this the next

"Friendship has structure. Rules. Like all good and

"And has my American friend ever fallen in love?"

His mother, a woman of very strong temperament and

comrades in local government, L'ingegnere Marini secured

Then, the deafening silence in the kitchen and dining

When Mario's most unusual circumstances reached the

THE POPE’S BEAST OF

"I would 'ave liked to attend," said the French-

transmission, making the hundreds of stop-and-goes

Council. In 1969 he was consecrated a bishop, and in 1972

Edouard Cardinal Gagnon

He wondered if it wouldn't be better for the delicate

boxes of books, clothing, and photographs — and several

This brings us to the center of our drama, and it is essential

Holy See," the havoc he was in a position to wreak upon

particular with Cardinal Sebastiano Baggio, were too close

Giovanni Benelli also stood, turned his head quickly

A MIGHTY OAK FELLED

Both hands resting atop the low enclosure wall,

Yes, it was time. High time... Just a few more minutes

Jean-Marie Cardinal Villot

Gagnon's reportedly monumental collection of files lay

a dangerous move —both literally and figuratively — by

accepted the Holy See's decision to terminate his services