The Octopus at the Vatican

# 4 - Two months before - Rome - kidnapping of Aldo Moro

Aldo Moro didn't know he had only left 54 days to live. When he woke up on the morning of March 16, he felt fulfilled. He had achieved what he had wanted for years, the political alliance with his longstanding rival, the Communist Party. Later, in the House of Representatives, it would be done. It was a historic moment for a historic compromise. With a crushing majority of representatives, it would provide stability to lead the country, his pipe dream.

The leader of the Communists, Ernesto Berlinguer was no ordinary communist. He was the only one who had disapproved of the invasions by the Russians of Hungary and Czechoslovakia. The two men had got on. Rivals but not enemies.

Later, the government would not vote against rightist government. It was a start: to begin a collaboration and see where it would lead. To accustom the country to not have panic-induced fear of the Reds. But the communists were terrifying, Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot. To the Church and the Italian politicians, Berlinguer was playing a game. He turned into a lamb to get into the house. No-one believed in his good faith. Apart from Moro.

And yet, Moro had been president of the Council five times. He was unavoidable, even if it was felt that he was being taken for a ride by Berlinguer.

The car was now in the northern suburbs of Rome, escorted by five carabinieri. He thought on:

But the screwballs on the left are excited by Mao Zedong's cleansing hysteria. He lit the fuse with his 'Cultural' Revolution where culture rhymes with mass murders. This madness spread to Cambodia.

There was a bottle neck, as so often in the capital. To the Red brigades, I am 'vermin to exterminate,' as Mao preaches. Brrr, he shivered, thank goodness I have the carabinieri to protect me.

The columned started to move, the traffic jam cleared. They were running well. He recognized the Via Mario Fani he often drove through. A pretty avenue on the heights. Cedar trees, pines shaded small residential three or four storied blocks of flats.

It must be good to live here, he thought. In twenty minutes, we will arrive at the Montecitorio Palace.

But suddenly, in the give way sign of the crossroad with the via Stresa, a car stopped dead in front of them, blocking them to a standstill. At the same time, gunfire crackled. To his right, two motor-carabinieri fell before they had time to get out their weapons. He got the impression that there was also shooting behind him. He stretched out on his seat. He could no longer see anything. The shootings stopped. The front door opened violently, he straightened up a little and saw his driver collapse from a shotgun bullet to his temple. The back door had opened behind him. He felt pulled by his ankles like a bag of linen. His gaze and his awareness clouded over suddenly. It was March 16.