“What do you mean, ‘Is not enough’?” the monsignor protested. “You asked for nine hundred dollars. Here is your nine hundred!”

Ivan-Vladimir shook his head. “No. One thousand two hundred dollars is price for both girls.”

“Nine hundred you asked for. Nine hundred I give you. And I tell you good-bye! Dasvidanya!” The monsignor stormed off in a fury.

By the time he reached home, he was sweating profusely. When he walked in, his phone was ringing. He picked up and listened.

“Is priest Montefeltro? Is escort service. You owe three hundred dollars.”

“I tell you before, I am not a priest! It was a costume party!”

“Costume party with two people?”

“You said nine hundred dollars! I gave your gorilla nine hundred dollars! Go away!”

“I make mistake about money. Just like you make mistake. Big mistake. Now you are owing three hundred more.”

The iniquity! “All right, all right,” the monsignor said. “I give you the three hundred. Then it’s finished. But I want returned the watch and the chain that I gave you.”

“No.”

“Sм.”

“No. Watch with chain is tip for girls. Who is Gid-yon Pine?”

Sweat poured anew from the sacerdotal forehead. “I don’t know. It’s an antique watch.”

“Is name on watch. Gid-yon Pine. Is he the one who called for the girls? He have a different accent from you. From south. It wasn’t you who call. You are Italian. Italian priest. According to caller ID, house is belonging to Massimo Montefeltro. So that’s you, yes?”

The besieged monsignor closed his eyes and summoned angels and archangels with flaming swords to smite the wicked, then opened his eyes to find himself still in the parlor where the sin had taken place, still smelling faintly of Protestant barf and Mr. Clean.

“All right, all right! Tell your Ivan or Vladmir I will meet him at the same place with three hundred dollars. Then we are finished. Finished forever.”

“Is not necessary.”

“What is not?”

“To meet at same place. He is now at this moment outside your door.”

The monsignor hung up. A moment later, it rang again. Expecting the Russian, he barked into it, “Russian pimp! I am getting your money!”

He heard silence over the line and the faint static hiss of an overseas telephone call, followed by a tentative female Italian voice saying, in Italian, “This is the Vatican operator. Is this the residence of the Monsignor Massimo Montefeltro?”

Jesu Christo.

“Yes, yes,” the monsignor said in Italian, in a somewhat different tone of voice. “There was another call, to a wrong number. A nuisance.” He summoned his dignity. “It is Monsignor Montefeltro who speaks. Who is calling him?”

“Cardinal Restempopo-Bandolini is calling. One moment, please. I will connect you.”

Had it been any normal Tuesday morning, Montefeltro would have been delighted and even honored to receive a phone call from the holy father’s consigliere principale, personal confessor, and supreme director of the Congregation for the Propagation and Defense of the Faith. Each of these portfolios was impressive enough; combined, they made their possessor the second-highest-ranking cleric in the Vatican and thus the Catholic faith, consisting of over one billion adherents. Even other cardinals trembled at the approach on marble of the scarlet-slippered feet of Bonifaccio Cardinal Restempopo-Bandolini.

So for Monsignor Montefeltro, this call, coming at this exact moment, was an occasion not of pride, but of pituitary gland panic. He stared into the infernal abyss, to the accompaniment of doorbell ringing and the concomitant banging of a meaty Slavic fist.

“Massimo,” said the high-pitched voice over the phone.

“Eminence.” Thump-thump-thump. Ding-dong. Thump-THUMP-THUMP.

“Fraternal greetings.”

Thump-thump-thump…

“And to you, Eminence.”

“I am calling on a matter of the most grave importance.”

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.

“Massimo, there is a noise.”

“I beg your indulgence, Eminence. It is-construction. They are building a…chapel. May I call Your Eminence back from a more tranquil telephone?”

“No, no, I must shortly accompany the holy father to an important meeting. My specific instructions will arrive in writing, by courier. But I wanted to tell you personally that there is a profound concern about this Transitioning bill in Washington.”

“Ah. Yes, I am following it closely, Eminence. Most closely.”

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.

“You are instructed personally to denounce this bill-publicly-in the most vehement language.”

“How do you mean, publicly, Eminence?”

“From every pulpit. Especially television. You are very good on the television. You are to be our leader in America on this matter.”

Monsignor Montefeltro’s mouth went as dry as an empty holy water dish.

“But, Eminence, surely,” he croaked, “the American cardinals, the papal nuncio, they are all much better suited than I to-”

“Massimo. Hear me. I am expressing to you the desire of the holy father himself. This is the greatest honor. You have pleased him. He reposes in you the greatest trust.”

“The holy father is too generous. I, I must-”

“Now I am going to tell you a great secret which you must not reveal to anyone. You are to be elevated to cardinal archbishop after the new year. You are to become the next papal nuncio to the United States. But you are not to let the holy father know that you know this. He wants to tell you himself. For it to be a surprise. Are you not pleased, Massimo?”

THUMPTHUMPTHUMP.

“Yes, Eminence.”

“You don’t sound pleased.”

“I am overwhelmed.”

“Very well. Now, attend me closely. You are authorized to say, on behalf of the Holy See, that should this abominable bill of ‘Transitioning’ become the law in America, the holy father will issue a bull of excommunication-to any American Catholic who supports it. Do you understand?”

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP. DING-DONG-DING-DONG-DING-DONGTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP.

“I think they are installing the bell of your new chapel. I must go. Good-bye, Massimo. God be with you.”

“Good-bye, Eminence.”

Monsignor Massimo Montefeltro slowly hung up the phone, the same phone that the head of the pro-life movement in the United States had used to telephone an escort service, one of whose employees was at this moment trying to kick in the front door. And now the pope in Rome himself had just issued instructions to the monsignor, whose phone number and-better yet-face were familiar to several employees of the escort service, to appear on every television screen in the country…in order to express moral indignation.

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.

Across Rock Creek and a mile down Pennsylvania Avenue, another phone was ringing just as Monsignor Montefeltro was hanging his up.

Bucky Trumble sat forlornly at his desk, contemplating the pink bottle of Pepto-Bismol. His stomach was a Vesuvius of churning gastric juices. He was certain that ulcers were forming.

“Mr. Trumble,” his secretary said, “it’s Mr. Cohane calling.”

Bucky took another slug of pink liquid and picked up the phone.

“What do you want?”

“You don’t sound very happy to hear from me.”

“Are you getting the right sound level for your tape recorder? Want me to count to ten? One, two, three-”

“Ah, come on, Bucky boy. Don’t play the debutante with me. You White House guys invented taping!”

“Get to the point.”

“Isn’t it nice not having to do all the bullshit? Now you can be honest with me. You don’t have to kiss my ass, don’t have to tell me, ‘Oh, Frank, I just spoke to the president and he has you in mind for a significant cabinet role in the next administration.’ Although come to think of it, you actually do have to kiss my ass. And that’s what I’m calling about.”