The Assassin by Evelyn Anthony

night.’
    When he had gone Regazzi put his papers in order and locked his desk drawers. He switched out the harsh little working light on its long flexible neck, and except for a single corner lamp the room was dark. He flicked that off at the door and went out. His room was on the same floor as his office; he had moved out of the comfortable suite occupied by former cardinals, and the bedroom was bleak, with nothing but the necessities for sleeping and keeping his clothes. He spent little enough time in it. But that night he didn’t go there; he walked on down the corridor and down the stairs. By his orders the chapel was never locked; he went into it, and paused. There was no austerity here, none of the ruthless pruning of luxuries which had made him so unpopular with his priests and staff. This was the Tabernacle of God, the golden shrine of that supreme mystery which had brought Martino Regazzi from the delinquent slum background of his youth in a crusader’s quest for glory. But glory for God, not for himself. He genuflected and went to the altar rail to kneel. Perhaps it was this silence, so different from the chaos of his ordinary life, which had stirred the vocation in his heart. He didn’t know; he had spent a lot of time thinking about it, examining his motives for pride or psychological slants. No doubt there were other explanations beside the call of God, but he was not aware of them. He loved the peace, the isolation of the empty chapel, empty of people but to him full of that other personality. And when he needed comfort or encouragement, this was where the Cardinal found it. He had made a decision that night; perhaps the biggest decision of his life since he became a priest. He was going to commit the unforgivable sin and enter into politics. It was not an easy choice; he was brave and there was more than a streak of braggadocio from his Sicilian grandmother, but what he was going to say from the pulpit of St Pat’s Cathedral would open the skies on him. The Church was political; but when people said this they weren’t paying any compliment. Even for Catholics it was a facet of their religion which they preferred to play down. The Vatican was far enough away to conduct itself like a national government in international affairs, but God help the priest who started weighing in for candidates at home. That was one reason why Regazzi had stayed neutral, refusing to ally with the obvious choice, an Irish Catholic democrat whose family counted the last Cardinal as their closest friend. Also he didn’t like them. Millionaires were not his kind of people, however similar their background might have been. The Cardinal believed in that unpopular saying that no good man dies rich; he went further still and said he couldn’t live rich either. He hadn’t supported Casey, because he wanted to be independent, to be everyone’s champion, rather than the Father Confessor to the White House. But not supporting was different from not condemning. The sins of omission were more heinous than the rest. That way was cowardice, indifference, sloth. John R. Jackson was the worst thing to happen in American politics in anybody’s memory. A lot of people were fighting him, but it seemed to Regazzi that from the citadels of American Catholicism the voice had been tactful if not mute. The Church of God was the Church of the poor, the coloureds, the underprivileged, the drop-outs, more in his opinion, than of the respectable people whose security was threatened by these elements. Had society been less selfish, more Christian in its distribution of the great riches of America, there would have been no problem population and no threat. The rich had many champions. He, Martino Regazzi, was about to become the champion of the rest and throw his Christian challenge in Jackson’s face; literally because he would be sitting there among the congregation on St Patrick’s Day. He had worked on the