“Unfortunately, FDR will not be available to meet until after the election. If we are to accommodate, this will extend your visit to nearly a month.”

“That’s quite the significant extension,” Pacelli noted, his mind already racing from the implications.

“Spellman and I have devised a plan: we propose you embark on an air tour of the United States, a press tour that will herald you as the highest-ranking Vatican official to ever grace American soil. The media will be in a frenzy over your extended visit,” Galeazzi explained, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes.

“Ah. You’ve already scheduled these meetings in key voting districts, I presume?”

“Indeed. Chicago, Cleveland, South Bend, St. Paul, Minnesota, San Francisco, Los Angeles, St. Louis, Cincinnati, Syracuse—and finally back to New York City where you will meet with FDR at his residence,” Galeazzi detailed, his voice steady and confident.

“That’s quite an extensive itinerary,” Pacelli mused, his mind whirling with the enormity of the task ahead.

“Your presence in these pivotal voting blocs will undoubtedly secure President Roosevelt’s reelection.”

“When do we depart?” Pacelli asked, ready to face the challenge head-on.

“Tomorrow.”

22 October 1936

Chicago, IL

“Cardinal Mundelein.” Archbishop Pacelli’s voice dripped with a feigned reverence that was as hollow as it was insincere. “I bring warm greetings from the Vatican and His Holiness.” The words were laced with an unmistakable disdain for the cardinal.

Mundelein, taken aback by the unexpected visit and the thinly veiled scorn in Pacelli’s voice, responded with a hint of unease, his voice wavering slightly. “The honor is all mine, Archbishop. Do extend my humble blessings to the pope.” This abrupt, unofficial visit from the Vatican Secretary of State had caught him off guard. Given Pope Pius XI’s precarious health, it was highly unusual for Pacelli to venture out of the Vatican on such short notice.

The Chicago cardinal couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease, a nagging suspicion that there was a hidden agenda behind this sudden visit. Pacelli’s rapid ascent within the Vatican hierarchy hadn’t escaped the notice of his fellow clergymen. Mundelein couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was more to this visit than met the eye.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” Pacelli said, his gaze steady on Mundelein. “The upcoming election is of utmost importance. It’s absolutely vital that President Roosevelt clinch another term in the Oval Office.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to permeate the room, the silence amplifying the tension. “Reverend Coughlin’s radio broadcasts have been escalating in their criticism of the president. Over the past few years, they have contributed to steadily chipping away at the president’s approval rating, resulting in a significant and worrying decline.”

“We are not ignorant of the reverend’s broadcasts, Archbishop,” Mundelein retorted, his voice trembling slightly, betraying his fear. “But we’ve taken care not to provoke him, terrified that his venomous words might be directed towards us. As a close personal friend of Roosevelt, I take these insults to heart.”

Pacelli remained stoic, his gaze piercing through Mundelein as he absorbed the cardinal’s feeble justifications.

“The United States leans more Episcopalian than Catholic. We simply cannot risk alienating any of our devoted followers,” Mundelein added, his voice laced with a tone of defensiveness.

“I assure you, the Vatican understands the delicacy of the situation.”

Mundelein felt a surge of disgust at Pacelli’s words. The Vatican Secretary of State was acting like a privileged son who had been handed the reins of a company without ever having toiled for it. His swift promotion to the second highest position in the Vatican had been a little too convenient, raising suspicion among the clergy that there were unseen forces at play.

“Do not worry. We possess the means to silence that reverend’s inflammatory rhetoric.”

Mundelein was somewhat aware of the “influence” the Vatican held over Coughlin’s life if he did not cease his critical radio broadcasts against the President. Whispers of persuasive conversations with the Vatican had circulated among the cardinals, leading to a suppressed atmosphere of terror.

“Cardinal Mundelein, we require your unwavering support in promoting President Roosevelt within your diocese and parishes. It is of utmost importance that your flock cast their votes for Roosevelt in this imminent election. The future of America hangs in the balance. Do I make myself clear?” Pacelli’s words were as sharp as a blade, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Cardinal Mundelein gave a silent nod of agreement. The archbishop’s veiled threat hung in the air like a guillotine blade, its implication clear—the same “influence” being brought to bear against Coughlin could just as easily be directed towards him.

“Also, it is crucial that the United States maintain its isolationist stance. This nation cannot afford another setback like the aftermath of the Great War or the crippling Great Depression,” Pacelli continued, his voice cold and unyielding as he outlined the Council’s directives.

Cardinal Mundelein remained silent, absorbing Archbishop Pacelli’s words with the obedience of a disciplined pupil, his mind racing from their implications. The peaceful facade Pacelli portrayed in public was a stark contrast to the malevolent aura he exuded in private.

Pacelli rose with Mundelein following suit. The tall, slender Pacelli locked eyes with Mundelein, his gaze piercing, ensuring the Cardinal of Chicago grasped the gravity of this meeting and the actions that were to follow. Mundelein stared back into the abyss and saw a deep-rooted evil lurking there. Without uttering another word, Pacelli turned and exited the cardinal’s office. Bishop Spellman was waiting outside to escort him to his next appointment. Hesitating for but a moment, Mundelein followed. He trailed behind the pair, feeling as though he had just struck a deal with the devil.

In the weeks that followed, similar private meetings and directives and threats were issued to the cardinals in charge of the most important cities throughout the United States.

5 November 1936

Hyde Park, Roosevelt’s Home

New York City

“Mr. President, I bring heartfelt greetings and warmest regards from His Holiness,” Pacelli said, extending his hand with a gracious smile as he began his coveted meeting with President Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

“The honor is entirely mine, Archbishop,” FDR responded, his hand firmly clasping Pacelli’s. The president leaned heavily on his cane; the polio had taken its toll. Despite the pain, he stood tall, a testament to his resilience and his respect for his esteemed guest.

“Please, Mr. President, let’s sit,” Pacelli suggested, gesturing towards the elegantly set dining table. As they moved to their seats, the wait staff glided in to present the first course of their luncheon—a velvety cream of asparagus soup, adorned with a dollop of sour cream.

“Congratulations on your sweeping victory in the election. I understand you claimed all but two states. Quite the achievement,” Pacelli remarked, his eyes reflecting genuine admiration.

“Well, it seems Maine and Vermont aren’t quite taken with my New Deal program,” FDR chuckled, his humor undiminished by the landslide victory.

A moment of silence fell between the two men as they savored the rich, creamy soup.

Pacelli broke the silence, his tone sincere. “I am grateful for your time, Mr. President. And may I say, we deeply appreciate the efforts of your friend Joseph Kennedy in arranging this luncheon. He is indeed a man of great character. You are fortunate to have him as a confidant.”

“Joe is a trusted ally. We talk frequently. When he deems a meeting important, I move mountains to make it happen,” FDR responded, his voice filled with respect.

They continued their meal, each spoonful of the asparagus soup savored before it could cool.

“Mr. President, I must confess, I am quite an admirer of yours. Your exploits and achievements have not escaped me.”

“Is that so?” Roosevelt responded, a hint of surprise in his voice. “And what have you heard?”

“Well, I understand you are somewhat of a treasure hunter,” Pacelli revealed, a glint of intrigue in his eyes.

Roosevelt was momentarily taken aback by the Vatican Secretary of State’s comment. It seemed Pacelli had done his due diligence before their meeting—a refreshing change from the usual diplomatic chatter he was accustomed to.

“It seems you’ve done your homework, Your Excellency. I’m flattered,” Roosevelt replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. Pacelli responded with a slight bow of his head.

“As you can see from these photographs”—Roosevelt gestured towards the wall—”I did indulge in a bit of treasure-hunting in my younger days. However, once I entered public service, that all came to an end.”

“Would you mind sharing some of your exploits? I must admit, I too have a penchant for treasure-hunting,” Pacelli confessed, his interest piqued.

“I was part of a team on Oak Island, part of the Old Gold Salvage and Wrecking Company in Nova Scotia,” Roosevelt reminisced, his gaze distant as he recalled his time in 1909. “We were on the hunt for a mysterious lost treasure.”

“What was this treasure you sought?” Pacelli asked, his curiosity evident.

“Well, there were many rumors,” Roosevelt began, a hint of embarrassment creeping into his voice. “The most popular was that the Knights Templar had buried their treasure on the island when they fled France in 1307.”