The Infant of Prague
- Автор: Granger Bill
- Серия: November Man #8
- Год: 1987
- Язык: французский
- Год: Warner
- ISBN: 0446347809
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «The Infant of Prague». Краткое содержание книги:
For in a humble Chicago parish church, the sacred statue of the Infant of Prague is found weeping real tears. A visiting Czech child star actress, transfigured by the wondrous event, declares, on live television, her intent to remain in American in the name of Christ and freedom.
Only an operative as cynical and seasoned as the November Man can sense the sinister link between two dramatic, yet apparently unrelated defections. A miracle has plunged him into a vast global adventure. And it will take a miracle to get him through it alive.
The defection of a highly visible Czech sparks an international crisis, and the November Man is caught in the middle.
“I didn’t know you were a Catholic,” Dick Lester said after watching the tape on the monitor.
“For years,” Kay Davis said and never even thought of it as a lie.
Father Hogan got to his rabbi late Tuesday, just after the News at Five segment. He felt besieged in his rectory. Two photographers were sitting in unmarked cars across the street and the police department had dispatched a tactical car to keep a watch over the watchers.
“Get a friend in the media,” his rabbi said in his close-to-the-receiver telephone voice. “You can’t keep the lid on it by pretending it isn’t happening. We’re not in the Middle Ages, for Pete’s sake. The Old Man is pissed off when stuff like this happens. He thinks you’re hotdogging. He doesn’t like hot dogs.”
“I swear to God, Charlie, I don’t want this any more than he does.”
“Then lose it,” said the rabbi.
“How do I lose it? I got the church locked and I got two of the men from the Holy Name Society said they would guard the doors tomorrow.”
“This isn’t Poland, Frank,” the rabbi said. “You don’t want guards around the church. I tell you, if I didn’t know you better, I’d swear you were milking this. Why didn’t you just get rid of the statue?”
“It’s bolted down,” Frank said.
“Unbolt it,” said Charlie.
“I can’t and I can’t find Wally. I got pretty steamed up at him yesterday and I think he’s taking a couple of days off to sulk.”
“Get a friend in the media, Frank,” said the older man. “Get someone who is going to be reverent and solemn and all that. Don’t make this look like it was put on by Baptists. Do the best you can.”
Do the best you can. It was miserable advice, Frank Hogan thought sitting in his office in the rectory. He could smell Mrs. Clements’ cooking from there. Corned beef hash again. He hated corned beef hash and she never failed to serve it on a day he really needed a lift from supper.
After supper, he called Monsignor Foley, the former pastor of St. Margaret’s, who was now retired in Clearwater, Florida. He had to know about the statue in order to learn what to do next.
“I don’t really recall.” Foley chuckled on the phone. “We probably got it from some grateful old Bohemian who got his prayers answered. Used to have a lot of Bohunks at Maggie’s. But I can’t recall getting it, so it must have been there before my time. So you got a miracle on your hands, is that it, Frank?”
“On my hands is a good way of putting it. And the statue is bolted to the altar and I can’t find Wally and you know me and tools.”
“Clumsiest priest I’ve ever seen,” Foley said. “Couldn’t even take to golf.”
“And the Cardinal is on my case about it,” Frank Hogan said sadly, thinking of the corned beef growling in his stomach.
“Yeah, that’s Bernie for you,” Foley said. “He’s gotten so very serious in the last couple of years, I think he’s running for Pope. It’s all those commissions he puts himself on. Me, I never was much for politics, especially church politics. They wanted me down in the chancery office at one time, but I was satisfied with Maggie’s and taking the afternoon off for a round at Fresh Meadows. I can golf every day down here, you know. Maggie’s suited me fine and I saw no point in giving it up to be a paper shuffler down at the chancery office. It was a big surprise when Cody made me monsignor, I never asked for it.”
God, Foley could ramble on and pretend he wasn’t the slyest fox in the forest, Frank Hogan thought. Well, Frank Hogan wasn’t going to be buried in Maggie’s if he could help it.
The new line of action came to Frank Hogan after morning mass on Wednesday. The two ushers at the door had politely restrained the photographers; the children had been suitably impressed by the publicity. In fact, a number of their parents had come to Mass that morning along with the children. All the people along with the news photographers and cameramen on the steps made it seem quite festive.
They locked the doors after Mass and Hogan prowled the church grounds looking for someone in particular. When he saw Kay Davis alight from the white Actionmobile, he signaled to her and they both ducked into a side door of the church.
“I need your help,” he began.
“Anything,” she said. Her voice was husky. She could smell the aura of defeat about Frank Hogan. She would have to be very tough on him.
“The last thing we want is this to turn into a circus,” he said.
“That’s what it’s turning into though, isn’t it?” she said.
“I saw your report on the television news last night. I was quite struck by your speech there about how the apparent miracle of the weeping statue had affected you.”
She saw the way it was. She lowered her eyes. “It was a personal experience for me. It was very moving.”
“Yes,” said Frank Hogan. “I didn’t realize it at the time when I was getting ready to kick out your cameraman.”
“Father, can I make a confession?”
“Now?” Hogan said, raising his eyebrows. “It doesn’t seem to be the time or place.”
“No. I mean, I want to tell you something. I haven’t been the best Catholic these last few years, but something about what happened here — what is happening here — has touched me.”
“Well, that’s why I wanted to talk to you. If we’re going to have a miracle on our hands, I want it to be done right. I think I can get you your pictures if you can promise me that St. Margaret’s Church comes out in a good light on this. I mean, we don’t want this to be a freak show like that fellow on television who goes around curing people. We don’t need a Lourdes here, is what I’m saying. This is just… well, like you put it, a religious experience. And I wish you would give credit to the Cardinal in this.”
“Why the Cardinal?” she said.
Didn’t the woman understand a damned thing? Frank Hogan thought. But he saw she didn’t and tried another tack.
“What I’m saying here, Miss Davis, is that I can give your photo… opportunity, I guess they call it, if you would be willing to do me the favor of getting to the Cardinal on this and giving credit to the man and kind of… well…”
“Putting it on him,” she said.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Hogan.
“Then let’s say that’s what we’ll do,” she said.
“Can you guarantee it?” he said.
“Absolutely,” she lied. Her eyes were bright and honest. She wore White Shoulders cologne and a Bill Blass silk blouse. She stood very close.
“Is the statue… is the Child… still weeping?”
“Yes,” Hogan said in a sad, small voice. “There’s stains on the collar now and the gown itself.”
“Can you turn up the church lights?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said in the same forlorn voice.
“Could we get a shot of you kneeling at the altar?”
Sure, he thought. It was why he wore his cassock today. And the celluloid white collar. He felt absolutely miserable and it wasn’t just last night’s corned beef hash. He had the feeling of something bad about to happen and being unable to do anything about it.
Her name was Anna Jelinak and she said she loved Chicago.
Previously, she had said she loved New York and Boston and Cleveland. In a little while, she was scheduled to love Kansas City, Phoenix, Los Angeles, and San Francisco.
When she said she loved Chicago, she was sitting on a stage in a television studio full of large women who clapped at her answer to the generic question: What do you think of America?
Anna Jelinak was a very beautiful fourteen-year-old from the city of Prague in Czechoslovakia. She was on a three-week publicity tour in the United States stressing the charm of Czech life, the beauty of its old cities, the culture of its museums, and the exciting world of motion pictures scheduled to be filmed in her native country. She, herself, was a motion-picture star in Czechoslovakia. She had appeared in two typical Czech films about small-town life and in one very long and gloomy French film, which no one understood and which had won a major prize at the Cannes Film Festival the previous summer.