Bucky equivocated to the overheated reverend that, much as he wanted to, he was unable to remove the dreadful woman from the commission. In soothing tones, he said that he and the president had “full confidence” in Gideon’s ability to “decisively influence” the commission.

“The president is counting on you,” Bucky said. “You’re our man on the commission.”

“What about my memorial?” Gideon demanded sulkily.

“Gideon. If we don’t get the president reelected, there won’t be a memorial. If Jepperson and that terrible woman prevail…well, I shudder.”

“I still want a statement for the record of the president’s support.”

“The announcement is being drafted even as we speak.”

Late the next Friday afternoon, when even an announcement that the United States was preemptively launching a nuclear war might be overlooked by the media, the White House issued a statement saying that it had “no objection in principle” to a “life memorial in a suitable locale within the nation’s capital.”

Gideon telephoned the White House to express his displeasure at this tepid declaration of support. Bucky assured him that the president would make his memorial “a priority” in the second term. On hanging up, Bucky Trumble wondered if he had done the right thing by inviting Gideon into his tent. His days were full enough without being on the receiving end of half a dozen daily hysterical phone calls from a steam-driven man o’ god. Gideon’s high-pitched voice was far from dulcet, even on an otherwise calm day.

Gideon and Monsignor Montefeltro met for a glass of 1997 Brunello di Montalcino to discuss strategy. The monsignor kept a superb cellar beneath his Georgetown home. Bottles from this happy catacomb had lubricated the pen hands of many a wealthy Catholic widow as they signed away vast tranches of their substance to Mother Church. How well the Lord would be pleased with them. Don’t forget to sign here, too. And initial here.

Gideon shared with the monsignor every jot and tittle of his deal with the White House. Montefeltro was himself a man thoroughly versed in hierarchies, a denizen of one of the world’s most ancient bureaucracies. Gideon craved his advice.

“Bucky Trumble, he sounds a very clever fellow,” he said, pouring Gideon a second glass. “But since he is a clever fellow, you must be vigilant, Geedeon.”

“Oh, to be sure,” Gideon said sipping the wine, “to be sure.”

“Do you believe Bucky Trumble when he tells you the president will make the memorial a priority in his next term of office? After he is reelected, he won’t need quite so much from his old friends and supporters.”

“Massimo,” Gideon said, “no more, thank you, it’s delicious, just delicious, but I’ll be three sheets to the wind. Of course they’re lying to me. How they do lie. But don’t suppose for one second that they’re going to play me for the fool. Gideon Payne did not fall off the back of a sweet potato truck. No, no, no. At the appropriate time, between the national political convention in August and the start of the general election on Labor Day, I will insist that they make the memorial a campaign issue. I will insist on a written declaration.” Gideon pursed his wine-moist lips.

“There is a matter I must share with you,” the monsignor said. “There was a meeting at the Vatican some days ago. On the subject of the American Transitioning bill. There is a group of some cardinals. Very orthodox, very doctrinal, very severe. The chief of them is Cardinal Restempopo-Bandolini. He is very important in the Vatican. Really, he is the semipope. Very powerful. What I will tell you now must sound very old-fashioned, but these cardinals, they see in this Transitioning an opportunity. At this meeting-this is very secret, Geedeon-they urged the holy father to issue a bull.”

“A…what, Massimo?”

“A bull of excommunication, against any American Catholic who supports such a bill. Or who even votes for any politician who supports such a bill.”

“Excommunication. You mean, you get tossed out of the church?”

“Yes. Forbidden from sacraments. Like I say, it’s very old-fashioned. To me, honestly, Geedeon, I think it’s too much. But they are very powerful, these cardinals. And I fear the holy father will listen to them. What will be the reaction of America in such an event?”

Gideon drew a deep breath. It was exhilarating to hear this news, and from the lips of someone intimately familiar with the innermost thinking of Rome, but-great God…a papal bull? Didn’t that go out with the Borgia popes?

“Massimo,” he said gravely, “I’m most grateful and honored that you have shared this confidence with me. But I must tell you, I am not certain that that is the way to proceed here. I’m sure you know your flock better than I do, but Americans don’t cotton to the idea of-”

“Cotton?”

“Sorry. Southern expression. Americans don’t like being told what to do by a-you’ll forgive me-foreigner.”

Monsignor Montefeltro said, “Geedeon. The pope is not ‘foreign.’ He is the universal church.”

“Yes, yes, I understand that. And I have only the highest respect. I’m only saying that if the pope issues some bull-and by the way, ‘bull’ is a pretty pungent term here; indeed, I fear for the puns that will result-but if the pope goes issuing bulls, it could upset things quite a bit.”

“I would say, from the perspective of Rome, things are already very upset in America, Geedeon. But I understand what you are saying, and I will of course relay this to Rome.”

“This Transitioning is going to be deader than a run-over raccoon. I’ll see to that. You tell your cardinals that Cardinal Gideon is on the case.” He winked. “Delicious wine, by the way.”

“There is a case of it in your car.” Monsignor Montefeltro smiled.

“Your generosity leaves me speechless.”

Chapter 23

What now? Frank Cohane thought, seeing his daughter’s name pop up on his Google news alert page yet again. She was the Terminator. He read aloud.

Appointed to the Transitioning commission. For chrissakes. Her and her senator boyfriend Jepperson.

In due course, Bucky Trumble called to give him a heads-up about the commission. He told Frank there was more to it than met the eye. He wouldn’t say any more, only that they’d put Gideon Payne on it, as a “firewall.” He hinted that they’d tricked Jepperson into serving on it so as to reduce his visibility as Mr. Transitioning Champion.

Frank had complex views about Gideon Payne. Deep down, he couldn’t stand the man. He had no taste for southern Bible-thumpers. This one was always in the news, yammering about building some grotesque monument to fetuses-fetuses!-on the Mall in Washington or showing up at the bedside of people who’d been declared brain-dead twenty years ago, with a media posse in tow, calling down thunder and federal intervention.

Which made it all the more strange that Frank Cohane found himself in business with Gideon Payne. The (highly confidential) negotiation with Elderheaven had gone through. Gideon’s string of old folks’ homes were RIP-ware’s first client. Every prospective resident at Elderheaven was required to submit to the RIP-ware questionnaire (DNA, family history, lifestyle). Elderheaven was quietly turning away anyone for whom RIP-ware was predicting longevity and accepting the ones who had only a few years left, while pocketing their entire life savings. In the six months since Elderheaven had begun using RIP-ware in its applications process, the mortality rate of Elderheaven had shot up 37 percent. Profits were up 50 percent!

Frank, who was as canny a businessman as he was an engineer, had insisted on a 10 percent share of Elderheaven profits. Everyone was making a killing.

For this reason, Frank Cohane kept his personal feelings about Gideon Payne to himself. As for Gideon, it had come as a bit of a shock to him when he realized that RIP-ware’s owner was the father of his archenemy, Cassandra Devine. But he was greatly mollified by Frank’s denunciation of her as morally repellent. He told Frank, “I’m sure she takes after her mother.”