Page 8 of The Medici Return

He’d been waiting now for nearly fifteen minutes, alone, ensconced in what appeared to be some sort of conference room. But not anything ordinary. Far from it. The space was huge, with a vaulted ceiling and walls dotted by an array of impressive Raphaels. There was something to be said for symbolism and imagery. He’d used both tactics, going all the way back to his teenage years when he was part of the Youth Front in the Italian Social Movement, a neo-fascist political party founded by former followersof Benito Mussolini. He worked his way up through a series of administrative posts to finally being appointed, at age thirty, Italian minister of youth. Twice he’d run unsuccessfully for the European Parliament and once in Rome’s municipal elections. Then he won a seat in the Italian legislature, the popularity of his National Freedom Party growing in direct proportion to the ruling government’s steady decline. Nine years he’d labored as party secretary, overseeing the entire apparatus using plenty of symbolism and imagery. Now national elections were set for September and his job was to secure the prime minister’s post for the party’s popular head. But to do that they had to achieve a working majority in the legislature, and to accomplish that they needed the help of the godforsaken Roman Catholic Church.

The door opened and a rotund man wearing a simple black clerical suit and collar strolled inside.

Jason Cardinal Richter.

Not dressed in scarlet for the occasion.

More symbolism? Damn right.

“I apologize for the delay,” the prelate said, closing the door. “It was unavoidable.”

Surely. No doubt.

Richter stepped over and took a seat at the end of the table. “How are you today?”

This was not their first talk. There’d been many before. Most short. Happenstance. At a restaurant. Social gathering. Once in a church. Three on the phone. Overtures. Feeling out the other. But never had they met like this. In the open. Official. Inside the Vatican. For all to see.

But that time had come.

“I came for an answer to my question,” he said to Richter. “Which I posed to you three weeks ago. I have patiently been waiting.”

“You may not like what I am about to say.”

Nothing unusual there. After all, he was a right-wing populist. An avowed nationalist. His party’s motto?God, fatherland,and family, but not necessarily in that order. It was opposed to abortion, euthanasia, same-sex marriage, and anything relating to gays or lesbians. For them a family meant male/female with the male at its head. There, at least, the party and the church saw eye-to-eye. They despised globalism and supported a naval blockade to halt immigration. They’d been accused of xenophobia and Islamophobia, which had never been denied. But they supported NATO and, surprisingly, the European Union, with limits. They hated Russia and were not fond of the United States, which was considered equally imperialistic. All in all the National Freedom Party was just the sort of group the Roman Catholic Church would never freely choose to support.

“I have spoken to many here in the Vatican,” Richter said. “Trying to gauge the measure of support. I have to say… the popularity runs quite cold. The various candidates from your party, which you want us to support for election to parliament, are all unappealing.”

“Our polling numbers are nearing 60 percent.”

Italy was a democratic republic with an elected president. The executive department was composed of a prime minister, appointed by the president, along with a council of ministers. The prime minister was usually the head of the majority coalition, or some new leader emerging from the majority coalition, or, in extreme cases, someone asked by the president to form a unity government. One caveat, though. Whoever was chosen had to receive the approval of parliament since any prime minister could be ousted with a vote of no confidence.

Which had just happened.

The president had already appointed two different candidates as prime minster, but neither had been able to form a working government. Instead of trying a third time new elections had been called so the people could decide. Eric knew that he was not the only person seeking the church’s endorsement. Everyone would want it.

“Did one of your members once call Mussolini agood politician in that everything he did he did for Italy? I believe that personwas further quoted that Il Duce was thebest politician of the last hundred years.”

Eric shrugged. “And the problem?”

“The fact that you do not see a problemisthe problem.”

“We are not fascists,” he declared. “We have denounced fascism in every form. The fact that we might admire how Mussolini governed is not reflective of our political beliefs. If you recall, we dismissed a member of the party for openly praising Hitler. We are a believer in the new right, not the old. We think differently.”

“The catchphrase of your party is taken directly from the Italian fascists.God, fatherland, family,” Richter said.

“Those are three admirable things to strive toward. Are they not?”

“Did your party not also say thatfear and insecurity produce much more controllable people?”

He shrugged. “It is true.”

“Eric,” the cardinal said. “The church will not back your party. I made the inquiries, as promised. But there are other choices far more palatable.”

Was this unexpected?

Not in the least.

Thankfully he knew his adversary.

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