The world, especially the world's Catholics, were surprised this morning by a Vatican announcement that Pope John XXIV met privately yesterday with the controversial New Age guru, Ngunda Elija Aran. The two men talked for an hour.
What they talked about was not reported, but a Vatican spokesman quoted the pope as saying: "Mr. Aran is a devout man with a deep love of God and humanity. We enjoyed an interesting conversation, and agreed to agree where we agree, and to disagree where we disagree."
Headline News
Atlanta, GA,
Nov. 16
This time Jack Russell had insisted on meeting somewhere other than Corkery's apartment. They'd settled on a church in Corkery's heavily Irish, South Boston parish.
It was early afternoon, and except for Russell, the nave was empty of humans. Quiet, peaceful. Shafts of winter sunlight slanted in, tinted blue, red and amber by stained glass. He'd deliberately arrived early by half an hour, and gone directly to a rear pew without approaching the tabernacle. Sitting there, an inner calm settled on him, an elevation he never felt except when alone and quiet in God's House.
Corkery, on the other hand, arrived twenty minutes late. Perhaps also deliberately, thinking to irritate his countryman. Sliding in beside Russell, he greeted him in Gaelic, then turned to English, speaking quietly for privacy.
"I suppose you have questions."
Russell spoke in a soft murmur. "I'd like to know what progress you've made toward disposing of Ngunda Aran."
"Ah! The black Jesus! I know the layout of the church, and where the bomb will be placed below the floor, directly under the speaker. The explosion will be more than adequate. There's a utility panel in the ceiling of the hallway below. I've seen it, examined the wiring in fact, and made a bid for some work I'd arranged to be needed. There's room between ceiling and floor to accommodate the bomb. I'll enter at night, put it above the ceiling, and slide it into position with a telescoping rod I've had made.
"And when the day arrives, I'll sit in the back of the church and detonate it myself, without ever taking my hand from my pocket. You see, the target walks about when he talks, and it's best to blow it when he's behind the pulpit. To make sure it kills him."
Russell stared, eyes wide. He'd already forgotten his irritation with Corkery's offensive "black Jesus" comment. How had he learned and arranged all that without an inside confederate? Corkery was good, that he knew, and ingratiating when he wanted to be. But all that? Or could the man be putting him on?
"As for the bomb" Corkery's smile was smug. He knew he'd impressed Russell. "The maker's as good as his reputation. He demonstrated the detonator for me, without explosives, of course. You'd love his work."
He paused. "But now let's see more money. I need it. The arrangements have not been made without risk and cost."
"You've kept records of expenses, of course," Russell said. "With receipts."
"Receipts?" The pseudo-friendly voice had turned sharp, fierce, hissing the word. "It's murder we're talking here, not commerce."
Corkery's sudden ferocity threw Russell off stride, but after a moment he answered, stiffly. "The people financing this are not ours. They do things differently. They want receipts."
Corkery's voice softened, but an edge remained. "Tell me, Jackie boy, which do they prefer? Receipts, or Ngunda Aran dead?" As he spoke, a large hard finger, an Irish farmboy's finger, poked Russell's shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise. "Because I will not give them both. The murdered guru is receipt enough." He paused, then finished. "Tell me now, and let me see the next five thousand. See and take!"
Jack Russell's lips were always thin. Now they'd disappeared entirely. Reaching into his inside breast pocket, he removed a thick wallet, and spreading it, exposed the money. Corkery's fingers snapped sharply, demanding. Grimly, reluctantly, Russell removed the money and handed it over. In the shelter of the pew in front of them, Corkery counted the bills, then put them inside his own jacket.
"And now, Mr. Russell," he murmured, "I'm curious about your plans for the Holy Father. I suppose you've seen the news about his meeting with your dear friend, Mr. Aran . . . Ah, I see you have. And while assassinating a pope hardly compares to assassinating a messiah, it's important in its way."
Russell managed to stiffen even more. "The plan is progressing nicely. Beyond that, I cannot talk about it."
"Have you considered a bomb? Bombs can be nice, if properly built and used. I could introduce you to my friend. He designs according to need. Besides, I like the concept: hiring a Shia Muslim to kill the Holy Father, in order to rescue the integrity of the Church. A lovely irony!"
Russell could stand the man no longer. Rising, he sidled to the aisle and left the building, his stomach burning. It would be the next day before he could keep food down.