Read Online In The Name of The Father by A. J. Quinnell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: A. J. Quinnell
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remember it, Your Eminence. Please give me your blessing.’
He did so and she kissed his ring. As he led her to the door he smiled and said, ‘Of course during this time you will have to revert to your birth name. It’s Ania, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Your Eminence. Ania Krol.’
He patted her on the shoulder. ‘Ania; it’s a nice name.’
No sooner had he closed the door than his phone rang. With a tired sigh he crossed the room and picked it up. His secretary informed him that the soffrigenti were here. He sighed again and told his secretary to wait ten minutes, then show them in. He settled himself in his chair and struggled to compose some words in his mind. His election as head of the one hundred thousand strong Order had taken place six months before and with it more work and problems than he could ever have imagined. Occasionally over the months he had received small delegations of what the Order called soffrigenti. These were priests who, in the course of their work around the globe, had suffered greatly. Some had been imprisoned for decades, others tortured, some maimed. There were also those who had spent lifetimes in solitary, obsessive study. It was the Order’s policy that, when possible, such priests should come to Rome to receive the thanks of their leader and his blessing and inspiration. This was one such delegation, assembled from priests who worked and who had suffered in the Soviet bloc.
Mennini was very conscious that the words he spoke to them would always be remembered. Every single word must have profound significance. He must be for them a father and a mother and a rock on which to cement their own faith. Their final allegiance, of course, was to the Holy Father, but it was definitely channelled through him. He hated to repeat himself on such occasions and struggled to find words which would sound fresh and inspiring. It was difficult. His eyes were constantly drawn to the leather folder on his desk and its single content. He opened it and read again the sheet of paper. Marvelled at the perfection of the signature and seal. He had seen both many times. These contained not a trace of deviation. The Bacon Priest was truly a genius. That reflection was replaced by another. By its use and what lay beyond, he, Cardinal Angelo Mennini, was committing a cardinal sin. Was it a sign to test his real faith?
Much troubled, he opened a drawer and slid in the file. He turned the lock and slipped the key into a hidden pocket of his gown, hoping, in a way, to lock away the thoughts. He turned his mind again to formulating words but it was hopeless. He would have to rely on his visitors to give him inspiration.
They did. Seven old men filed into the room. The youngest was in his early sixties. The oldest over eighty. Mennini greeted them all by name as they kissed his ring. The oldest, Father Samostan from Yugoslavia, tried to kneel. Very gently Mennini lifted him up and enfolded him in his arms and then led him slowly to a comfortable chair. The others sat on two angled settees. They had already been given refreshments in the anteroom. The audience would last no more than ten or fifteen minutes. Mennini studied them. Seven tips of the Order’s tentacles. They were in the forefront of the Order’s battle, but they did not look like warriors. Just seven bent, black-clad old men. There was Botyan from Hungary. Over forty years a secret priest, hunted and haunted by a solitary life; bald head, cadaverous face, eyes deep in their sockets. But what eyes! They were luminous in faith, honesty and determination.
Next to him sat Klasztor from Poland. Eighteen years in the Gulags. The Bacon Priest had somehow got him out five years before. He had refused to retire comfortably to the West but insisted on doing pastoral work in his native land. Dangerous pastoral work. Mennini knew the histories of all these men. Inevitably his attention was drawn to the bony figure sitting at the end of one of the settees. This man
He did so and she kissed his ring. As he led her to the door he smiled and said, ‘Of course during this time you will have to revert to your birth name. It’s Ania, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Your Eminence. Ania Krol.’
He patted her on the shoulder. ‘Ania; it’s a nice name.’
No sooner had he closed the door than his phone rang. With a tired sigh he crossed the room and picked it up. His secretary informed him that the soffrigenti were here. He sighed again and told his secretary to wait ten minutes, then show them in. He settled himself in his chair and struggled to compose some words in his mind. His election as head of the one hundred thousand strong Order had taken place six months before and with it more work and problems than he could ever have imagined. Occasionally over the months he had received small delegations of what the Order called soffrigenti. These were priests who, in the course of their work around the globe, had suffered greatly. Some had been imprisoned for decades, others tortured, some maimed. There were also those who had spent lifetimes in solitary, obsessive study. It was the Order’s policy that, when possible, such priests should come to Rome to receive the thanks of their leader and his blessing and inspiration. This was one such delegation, assembled from priests who worked and who had suffered in the Soviet bloc.
Mennini was very conscious that the words he spoke to them would always be remembered. Every single word must have profound significance. He must be for them a father and a mother and a rock on which to cement their own faith. Their final allegiance, of course, was to the Holy Father, but it was definitely channelled through him. He hated to repeat himself on such occasions and struggled to find words which would sound fresh and inspiring. It was difficult. His eyes were constantly drawn to the leather folder on his desk and its single content. He opened it and read again the sheet of paper. Marvelled at the perfection of the signature and seal. He had seen both many times. These contained not a trace of deviation. The Bacon Priest was truly a genius. That reflection was replaced by another. By its use and what lay beyond, he, Cardinal Angelo Mennini, was committing a cardinal sin. Was it a sign to test his real faith?
Much troubled, he opened a drawer and slid in the file. He turned the lock and slipped the key into a hidden pocket of his gown, hoping, in a way, to lock away the thoughts. He turned his mind again to formulating words but it was hopeless. He would have to rely on his visitors to give him inspiration.
They did. Seven old men filed into the room. The youngest was in his early sixties. The oldest over eighty. Mennini greeted them all by name as they kissed his ring. The oldest, Father Samostan from Yugoslavia, tried to kneel. Very gently Mennini lifted him up and enfolded him in his arms and then led him slowly to a comfortable chair. The others sat on two angled settees. They had already been given refreshments in the anteroom. The audience would last no more than ten or fifteen minutes. Mennini studied them. Seven tips of the Order’s tentacles. They were in the forefront of the Order’s battle, but they did not look like warriors. Just seven bent, black-clad old men. There was Botyan from Hungary. Over forty years a secret priest, hunted and haunted by a solitary life; bald head, cadaverous face, eyes deep in their sockets. But what eyes! They were luminous in faith, honesty and determination.
Next to him sat Klasztor from Poland. Eighteen years in the Gulags. The Bacon Priest had somehow got him out five years before. He had refused to retire comfortably to the West but insisted on doing pastoral work in his native land. Dangerous pastoral work. Mennini knew the histories of all these men. Inevitably his attention was drawn to the bony figure sitting at the end of one of the settees. This man
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