Today the Vatican announced that next July, Pope John XXIV will convene the Third Vatican Council, to be titled "Transition to a New Era of Human Spirituality."
Headline News
Oct. 19
In certain circles, Jack Russell was a man of importance. Until a few years earlier, he'd been a "captain" in the Irish Republican Army's long-disowned terrorist wing. He'd been responsible for planning and overseeing a number of bombings and assassinations, notably in England. Finally he'd left Ireland, partly because of the good work of Joseph Cardinal Flannery, now John XXIV.
For despite the Cardinal's hard-won amnesty for such as Jack Russell, the captain refused to live in an Ireland containing an autonomous Ulster, even under the constitution of Eire. Each night in his prayers, he cursed Joseph Stephen Flannery for his interference, and Gerry Adams for his perfidy.
In Canada, Russell had found a new cause and a new groupthe (at most) loosely organized Catholic Soldiers in America. Most, like himself, were from Ireland, while of the rest, most were Canadians and Americans of Irish descent. (Poles, Italians, etc, need not apply, though a few token Québecois had been accepted.) Their cause was the salvation of Catholicism as they considered it should be, a Catholicism partly of the past, and partly of their various imaginings.
They had no real working plan. They brooded darkly in apartments and flats in Montreal, where the RCMP could not molest them, and plotted to murder "enemies" whose prominence would gain them publicity. So far they'd bagged two liberal bishops and a senator, as well as less prominent Catholics who'd offended them. None of the murders had taken place in Quebec, of course.
In his physical habits, Jack Russell was an orderly man, and believed everyone should be. It was that, he considered, which made him a superior planner and superior person. Thus he looked around Thomas Corkery's Boston efficiency apartment with evident distaste.
Disgraceful! he thought. It was nearly noon, and the bed was scarcely made, a lumpy quilt simply thrown across it. Books were stacked on a window sill, most with library labels on their spines. Probably overdue. Newspaper sections and separate pages lay on sofa and table as if scattered by the wind. A banana peel lay black and curling on the kitchenette counter, making Russell's nose wrinkle, while on the table sat a saucer with a dozen cigarette butts. He could see three different coffee cups sitting about the room, all undoubtedly dirty and perhaps half full. For all that Russell knew, still others could be hiding beneath newspapers, all no doubt used by Corkery himself. The man would hardly be having guests, for who would come here, short of necessity?
At least there was no sign he'd taken to drink again. Russell himself, of course, was a conspicuously sober man, and hated working with drinkers. Unreliable! The habit was especially incompatible with one of Corkery's strongest points, his marksmanship with handguns. It was said he could shoot the spade out of the ace of spades at 10 feet without sighting.
"What brings you down from the frozen north?" Corkery asked. "Is it a job you have for me? Some little tasksome wetwork you'd rather hire out than do yourself?"
Except for "wetwork," he said it in Gaelic, which he spoke fluently by the standards of the time. Spoke it deliberately here, to put his guest at a disadvantage, for Russell had barely learned it in school. Used carefully, allowing for his limitations, he could understand it, but he spoke it miserably, his tongue clumsy as a peat spade. Even as Corkery spoke, a great burly tomcat entered through an open window, probably from a fire escape, Russell thought. It jumped from the sill and stalked over to Corkery, followed by Russell's exasperated glare. Leaning, Corkery began to scratch the scarred, nearly earless head, and a deep thrumming rose from the beast's throat. Russell's thin lips compressed. He was allergic to cats, as Corkery undoubtedly recalled, and the petting would make it worse.
Corkery's blue eyes peered across at him mockingly. "I used to call him Cuchulain, but recently I renamed him Pius XIV, in honor of the late lamented. God rest his soul. Would you care to pet him?"
Russell refused to honor the offer by replying. Corkery stood, and Pius XIV, after briefly rubbing at his human's shins, stalked to a bowl in a corner, to lap milk no doubt souring.
"So," Corkery said, "what is it you'd have me do?"
"I've an execution I'd like you to carry out." Russell answered in English, hating Corkery for his one-upmanship. The Gaelic was no proper measure of a man's Irishness, nor any sign of virtue in Corkery. It was circumstance, nothing more. Corkery had grown up in rural Kerry, apparently in a family that still used it at home. As for himself, he'd grown up in Dublin, where one seldom heard it except in school.
"A killing is it?" Corkery sounded interested, speaking English now. "And who would it be?"
"Ngunda Elija Aran, who has presumed the title Messiah. An affront to the Holy Church and to God himself."
"Aran? I've followed him in the papers, and heard him on the telly. I wasn't aware he'd claimed the mantle of Christ."
"Others claim it for him, and he's never rejected it. He'll say it in time, if he lives."
"Ah! A terrible crime." Corkery's tone was mocking. "Well, let's talk about it. After all, messiahs are supposed to die at the hands of the wicked. Why not mine?" He chuckled, then added, "No doubt you've had thoughts on how it might be done?"
The man is cold, Russell thought. Cold. He kills for money and pleasure; the Cause means nothing to him. "He'll be here in Boston. In January, speaking at the Bentham Avenue Unitarian Church. And, Thomas, the man's security people are the best. We want no shoot-out, nor anything that could lead to our identification. Use a bomb, not a pistol. If it sends some Unitarians to hell with him, there's little lost."
"It won't be cheap," Corkery said. "Planting bombs of suitable size, bombs that won't be found, takes arranging and care. Also, I'll need information on the church and its services, and we're unlikely to have an insider to work with. I do know someone who custom-makes bombs, excellent bombs, but he has a cause of his own, and always needs money. Then there are costs I can't foresee till I've a plan sketched out." He paused, grinning, rubbing thumb and forefinger together in Jack Russell's face. "And of course there are my own small needs."
Russell's lips twisted sourly. It always came down to that: his specialty, getting the money. "Times are hard," he answered. "I'm prepared to give you three thousand cash today, Canadian. For a rough plan in ten days, by mail, and a detailed plan in four weeks. Then we'll see how much more is needed."
Corkery shrugged. "Indeed. And meanwhile, what derring-do will you be up to?"
The question was further mockery, another annoyance atop the others. Russell knew what was said of himthat when it came to killing, he lacked the stomach for it. "I'll be in Rome by December," he answered drily, "disposing of the antichrist with my own hand."
Corkery's eyebrows rose. "With your own hand, you say? I'll believe that when I hear of the old man's murder on the telly." He paused. "And you named as the triggerman."
When Russell had left, Corkery filled a coffee cup with the dregs from three, and put it in the microwave. To let a contract on a man because others call him Messiah! he thought, and shook his head. Russell's crazier than I am. He has no cause now, only hatred looking for targets.
"Well," he murmured aloud, "it helps pay the bills."