MAGNIFICAT

a novel of the millennium

by

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

HIDDEN KNOWLEDGE

SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA

1999

The entire contents

of this edition

Copyright © Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

In accordance with the International Copyright Convention and federal copyright statutes, permission to adapt, copy, excerpt, whole or in part in any medium, or to extract characters or any purpose whatsoever is herewith expressly withheld.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, apply to publisher below.

A somewhat different version of Chapter One appeared in Gauntlet Magazine, No. 6 (November 1993)

You, the owner, may make backup copies and/or put a copy on a second or third computer or reading device. You may print out a copy for your own use. You may lend the book, sell it, or give it away, as long as you lend, sell, or give away all copies. You may have the text read aloud by reading machines or computers or people.

You may not distribute free copies, put it on a network, e-mail it to your friends (or enemies or strangers or anyone else), photocopy your printout for someone else, or do any of the other things that you, as an intelligent being, know would be wrong.

Just treat us the way you would like to be treated yourself.

— THE PUBLISHERS

Published as a digital book by

Hidden Knowledge

1181 Martin Avenue

San Jose, California 95126-2626

http://www.hidden-knowledge.com

First Edition (Release 1.08)

15 May 2005

The Canticle of the Virgin Mary

called The Magnificat, Luke 1:46-55

Magnificat anima mea Dominum

Et exsultavit meus in Deo salutari meo.

Quia respexit humilitatem ancillae Suae;

Ecce enim ex hoc beatam me dicent omnes generationes.

Quia fecit mihi magna Qui potents est,

Et sanctum nomen Eius.

Et misericorida a progenie in progenies timentibus Eum.

Fecit potentiam in brachio Suo, dispersit superbos mente cordis sui.

Desposuit potentes in sede in exaltavit humiles.

Esurientes implevit vonis et divites dimisit inanes.

Suscepit Israeel puerem Suum recordatus misericordiae Suae.

Sicut locutus est et Patres nostros, Abraham et semini eius in saecula.

My being extols the greatness of the Lord,

My soul rejoices in God my savior,

For He has looked upon His servant in her humility;

All ages to come will call me most fortunate.

God Who is mighty has done great things for me,

Holy is His name.

His mercy is from age to age for those who fear Him.

He has shown might with His arm;

He has confounded the proud in their deliberations.

He has deposed the great from their thrones

And raised the lowly on high.

The hungry He has fed to repletion,

While the greedy He has sent away with nothing.

He has upheld Israel His servant, always cognizant of His mercy,

Even as He promised our father Abraham and his descendants for all time.

This is for

my step-brother

Jack Patrick

who is Roman Catholic

and my friend

Robert R. McCammon

who isn’t

This is a work of fiction; I made it up.

But the premise is consistent

with Roman Catholic dogma

doctrine and theology.

MAGNIFICAT

Part I:

ELECTION

Chapter 1

As he set the nib of his pen on the vellum, Ottone, Cardinal Folgar, was possessed by a strange dizziness; there was a whiteness behind his eyes, light that was more than light, a fluttering of breath, a sense that something hovered over him, a moment that was suspended in eternity. Then it was gone and he passed a shaking hand across his brow, murmuring thanks to God that He had chosen to leave him on earth a little longer. How ironic, he thought in the next instant as he touched the crucifix that hung on his breast, if he died now, while the Cardinals were gathered in conclave to choose a new Pope: a new Pope for the second time in three years, and with the millennium fast approaching, bringing with it a religious fervor Cardinal Folgar had not encountered before in his lifetime.

From inclination as much as habit the Cardinal still prayed in Latin, relishing the tolling cadences he had mastered as a child. Now the familiar liturgy took his mind off the peculiar, brief episode that might presage disaster. His brother had died of a stroke, just three years ago. Perhaps this was how it had begun. He continued his thanks to God, shutting out the arthritic ache in his knees as well as his growing irritation with his fellow-Princes of the Church, who, like him, were about to submit their ballots to be counted. He set aside the old-fashioned crow-quill pen.

Then he glanced down at the vellum and shook his head. He had been instructed to disguise his handwriting, and had certainly succeeded in doing so. Would it be possible to read the name of Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung in that disjointed scrawl? That was not supposed to be his concern. He crossed himself and got up from his knees, impatient to be done. There was another long week of maneuvering, he was convinced, before his own conservative faction and Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme’s radicals would come to terms. Both sides would probably compromise, either with the popular Vitale, Cardinal Cadini, or the Canadian, Dominique, Cardinal Hetre. For the time being, there was a ritual to the politics of the conclave as there was to everything in the Church—hence his temporary support of Cardinal Jung, though he did not want the pompous Swiss to be elected.

He put his vellum into a foil-lined envelope and began to heat sealing wax over a match. This was one reform of John-Paul II’s he could approve, this simplifying of the presentation of ballots; as he pressed his Cardinal’s ring into the dollop of hot wax, he thought he felt a distant, fleeting echo of his earlier disorientation. He blew out the match and resumed his prayers.

* * *

Not far from Cardinal Folgar’s conclave cell, Jivin, Cardinal Tayibha completed his prayers without finding the peace he sought. He had heard that the conclaves were more politics than religion, but he had not anticipated how extreme it would be, with the liberal and conservative elements of the Church so acrimoniously divided. He had attempted to conceal his shock and dismay but knew he had failed. As the newest Cardinal, he was the least prepared for what he encountered here; he almost regretted the knowledge he had acquired in the last thirteen days as the Cardinals feinted and riposted for advantage. How far he had come from the simple faith of his youth, the trust of his ordination. At fifty-one he was becoming a skeptic.

It was time to vote, he knew, and he could not think of any name to put on the vellum. The last time he had voted for Felipe, Cardinal Pingari, as a gesture of support for the Filipino, but knew that a second such endorsement would be wasted: Cardinal Pingari himself had asked that he not be considered. He admired Vincent, Cardinal Walgren of Los Angeles, who had accomplished such wonders with youth gangs and drug dealers. But was that acumen enough to recommend him for the Papacy? And how would the world respond to an American Pope?

He was not aware that he had taken his pen in hand and marked the vellum. It must be the fatigue, he decided as he peered at the scratchings. He had been staying up nights for meditation and prayers; during the day he fasted. Now those disciplines were taking their toll. The writing looked like doodles, he thought, or Chinese. He reached for his foil-lined envelope and prepared to seal his vote, wondering distantly whose name he had written.

* * *

When Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme handed over his sealed ballot, he left his cell for Vespers, ready to hear the tally of the votes as soon as the service was concluded. He could not conceal the aggravation that consumed him as he walked down the Sistine Chapel, ignoring Michelangelo’s splendor overhead. If only Urban IX had lived another year! There would have been time to organize the Church liberals against the forces of conservatism which were gaining strength in the Church as the Third Millennium approached. It was hard to believe. In just three years the Third Millennium would begin, and the Church was in as much disarray as the rest of Christianity in anticipating 2001 A.D. Every extremist group was preaching chaos and the Second Coming, and the conservatives in the Church sympathized with this madness. Without the sweeping changes of John-Paul II in the last decade, the Church would be even more hampered than it had become; at least there was a mechanism for change and reform, little as it was used. Inwardly he was afraid that it was too late, for the Cardinals with Cardinal Folgar were entrenched and prepared to resist to the last. As it was, he had tried to rally the Europeans along with the Third-world Cardinals to stand against the reactionaries. The longer it took to elect the Pope, the more he feared the outcome of the conclave.

His own vote puzzled him, for he had been distracted when he wrote the name of his candidate. It was an effort to make sense of the marks on the vellum, but he supposed that the secretaries were used to that and would make allowances for his attempts to disguise his hand. He stopped walking as he chided himself for his worldliness; the Apostolic Succession, he reminded himself sternly, was the result of the visitation of the Holy Spirit, not the result of Vatican skulduggery. That, above all, must be maintained or the whole fabric of Catholicism unraveled. Very carefully he crossed himself and tried to turn his thoughts to more spiritual paths. As he strove to keep his mind away from politics, he heard the opening words of Vespers—today in German—and he hastened to join the other Cardinals in worship.

* * *

It was Vitale, Cardinal Cadini who spoke for all of them when the secretary presented himself to them fully two hours after he was expected. “What is the trouble, Father?” He broke with tradition in asking the question, but Cardinal Cadini had made a career of breaking tradition since as a young Monsignor he had been an aide to John XXIII, and no one was shocked by him now. “Tell us.”

The secretary, grown old at the Vatican, and seeming to be made of the same parchment as were many of the documents he tended, offered a gesture of apology. “Yes, Eminences,” he said, his voice almost breaking. “I fear there may be a…a problem.”

“Well, what is it?” demanded Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung, his corpulent, satin-clad body as polished as a Dresden figurine. “Tell us at once.”

Father McEllton blinked in helplessness. “It is not my sin, Eminences. I am not in error. I thought at first I was, but when all the ballots were examined.… I have done nothing to be ashamed of, but I must ask you to pardon me.”

“Certainly,” said Cardinal Cadini, his raisin eyes twinkling. “We will all pardon you, every one of us, Father McEllton, if only you will tell us what is wrong.”

There was a murmur of consent from the eighty-nine Cardinals, and one or two mutters at the delay.

“Have we a Pope or not?” Cardinal Folgar asked emphatically.

“Eminences, we have…consensus.” He turned pale. “You have all written the same name. ”

“All of us?” Cardinal Folgar was dumbfounded that all the Cardinals would support Cardinal Jung.

A susurrus passed through the men gathered around Father McEllton, and one or two of the Princes of the Church crossed themselves.

“How is that possible?” asked Cardinal Pingari with a polite nod to the cadaverous Cardinal Lepescu at his side. Both men wore dignity more prominently than their red cassocks.

“If we truly have consensus,” said the doubtful Dominique, Cardinal Hetre, “then why have we not followed procedure?” He was a stickler for procedure, always.

Once again Father McEllton dithered. “You see, I didn’t understand at first. I did not see. How could I? What would lead me to think.… I thought it was the handwriting.” He wrung his fingers as if to force the offending words out of them. “I ask your pardon, Eminences. I mean no disrespect. If Father Zirhendakru had not been.… As it was, he identified the…the name.”

“Surely our handwriting was not that bad,” suggested the older Polish Cardinal, his eyes hard and bright in his wrinkled face. He had supported the controversial Tokuyu, Cardinal Tsukamara, and flatly refused to suppose that all the rest of the College of Cardinals did as well. If only he had paid more attention to how he wrote the name on his ballot; but he had been momentarily distracted when he put his pen to the vellum, an inexcusable lapse.

“It was…it was all the same,” said Father McEllton at last. “All the same name.”

“And who is it?” the senior Cardinal from Brazil asked bluntly, glowering at Father McEllton. “What is it that distresses you?” Beside him, Jaime, Cardinal O’Higgins of Mexico City scowled portentously, the expression incongruous in his impish face.

“We ought not to receive the information you have for us this way, no matter what the awkwardness of it may be,” said Cardinal Tayibha. “There is ritual—”

“It is not the name of anyone here,” blurted out Father McEllton. Now that he had spoken the dreadful news, he felt suddenly, maddeningly calm. Nothing else would be as appalling as telling them that.

“What do you mean, it isn’t the name of anyone here?” Cardinal Folgar said in disbelieving indignation. Which of the three celebrated Archbishops had been able to gain the Papacy when they had not yet achieved their red hats? How could there be unanimity, when he himself had not supported any of the Archbishops? Cardinal Folgar began to review all those Cardinals who might be expected to show support for one of the three famous Archbishops, but could not fathom how such a thing could happen, certainly not unanimously. “There has been a mistake,” he said, and saw that most of the Cardinals agreed with him.

“Yes, precisely. It is a mistake, one that requires correction. The name…it is…it is the name of a foreigner.” Father McEllton folded his hands. “It is not a name I recognize, nor does the computer.” He stared straight ahead. “We have gone through all the registers and we have not found the name.”

This time a third of the Cardinals crossed themselves and the words that were whispered among them were less indignant than before. One or two of the Cardinals appeared almost frightened.

“But you say Father Zirhendakru recognized it,” prompted Cardinal Hetre, as much to stave off further distress as to obtain the offending name. These delays were making his headache worse.

“Not precisely. He knew the language, and he translated it.” Father McEllton had turned bright red, his fair skin taking his blush like a stain.

“Tell us, Father,” said Cardinal Cadini with his world-famous smile. “What is the name. Who have we all endorsed?” The smile grew broader, so that everyone would be certain he was joking, not commanding.

“It.…” He took a deep breath, feeling his heart slamming in his chest. If only Our Lady would protect him through this ordeal, he would retire from Vatican service for the rest of his life and devote it to study and assisting the poor, he vowed. “It is Zhu…Zhuang Renxin, or so father Zirhendakru tells me.” He stumbled over the word, unable to pronounce the inflections.

The Cardinals were silent.

Then Cardinal Folgar spoke for all of them, shaking with the intensity of his emotions. “What nonsense is this?”

Immediately the other Cardinals added their questions and demands. The noise grew tremendous.

“That is what Father Zirhendakru says,” Father McEllton repeated several times, unable to think of anything else to offer them. He had no explanation at all.

Finally Cardinal Hetre managed to make himself heard over the rest of them. “It is obviously a prank,” he said, choosing the least inflammatory word he could think of. “Someone is trying to influence the conclave or make mock of it without direct interference.”

This brought nods of agreement and a few condemning outbursts, including one staunch defense of Vatican Security. The growing awe that had possessed the Cardinals now vanished and was replaced by outrage.

“It had to be the Communists,” said Cardinal Jung at once, certain that they would want to sow dissention in the ranks; and if the name on the ballot was Chinese, it only served to prove his point. “They want to destroy the Church, and they want to promote their godless cause in the eyes of the world. What better way than this?”

“It has to be the Separatists,” corrected Michon, Cardinal Belleau, referring to the group of excommunicated priests and nuns who had splintered from the Church and now had established their own Vatican and Pope on the other side of Rome near Settecamini, acting in open defiance of the Holy See.

“Incredible,” murmured Cardinal Cadini, for once unable to come up with a single witty remark.

“It is obvious that we are being duped,” said Ectore, Cardinal Fiorivi, the most respected legal mind in the highest ranks of the Church and currently Vatican Secretary of State. “Someone, and it does not matter who, is attempting to impugn our credibility, to cast doubt on any Pope we elect. It is up to us to use our best judgment now and not permit this incident to interfere with our task here.” His voice, resonant and deep as a fine bell, quieted the gathering. “It behooves us to withdraw for meditation and prayer tonight, and in the morning we will have to discuss what we wish to do with these ballots. We will have to find a way to keep this information from reaching the public; it will be difficult, because whoever is responsible will certainly do their best to inform all the news media of what has happened, if only to put forward embarrassing questions. We must not permit this to occur, and we will need to counteract the rumors as soon as possible. In the meantime, you, Father McEllton, will announce that we have given the day to discussion and prayer and have not cast votes this evening, to forestall another dead-lock. Perhaps our reticence will cause the ones responsible to show themselves.”

There were a few words of agreement at Cardinal Fiorivi’s proposals, but Cardinal Tayibha could not go along with the others.

“Eminences,” he said, his voice cracking, “we are here to invite the Holy Spirit to make itself known to us. We have all written a name, the same name. Might not this be a manifestation of the Holy Spirit? It is said that the Holy Spirit could inspire us to elect any living soul on the earth to occupy the Throne of Saint Peter. Dare we presume to declare ourselves above the visitation of the Holy Spirit, and the true Will of God if that is what has actually occurred?”

“The Holy Spirit would not be recommending a Chinese to be Pope,” announced Cardinal Folgar. “It’s absurd to think otherwise. We know the dogma, but we know the Church, as well.” His smile was condescending as he went on to the soft-spoken Cardinal from Madras. “It is your first time in conclave, and you are still learning your way. Your piety does you credit, of course, but in circumstances like this, it is essential that we do not permit ourselves to be deceived. So many Catholics are gullible and can be taken in by any number of ruses, and never more so than when we are in conclave.” He looked around and saw favorable responses in the eyes of many of the Cardinals. “We have been the victims of a clever, evil joke, and we must be at pains to guard against similar incidents.”

Again there were gestures of support, a few quite emphatic.

But Hunfredo, Cardinal Montebranco was not convinced. “How can you assume that we have been deceived? Is it impossible that the Holy Spirit would touch each of us, if God wished it?”

“We pray that we will receive the gifts of the Holy Spirit,” said Cardinal Jung at once, “but Folgar is right; it is not credible that the Holy Spirit would offer the name of a Chinese.” He had a deep, plumy laugh. “How could such a thing happen?”

“If it is the Will of God,” said the venerable Cardinal Montebranco, “it would require only to exist; credibility is for fallible humans.” He crossed himself. “I pray that we are not like Peter, to deny Our Lord when He is present.”

“Do you seriously suppose that the Holy Spirit would offer the name of a Chinese? A non-Catholic? A Communist?” demanded Cardinal Jung, his voice rising in pitch with each question.

“No,” said Cardinal O’Higgins in a thoughtful voice. “No, but that does not mean anything when dealing with matters of God. What we suppose is as nothing.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “It would be easier to turn away if only a few had written the name, but as we all did, it is.…”

“Proof that the saboteurs have agents in the Vatican, as we have long suspected,” said Cardinal Folgar promptly. “This is the result of careful planning, that may have taken years to put into action. Whatever their goals and whoever they are, they have overstepped themselves here. That shows pride, and their error. Had they given the…vision to half our number, it would appear odd but reasonable, but they become greedy, and that was the source of their failure.” He motioned to Father McEllton. “You have done well by coming to us in this way. If you had spoken officially we would have had to make a statement and we can say nothing official about this. When we reveal tomorrow that we have not yet reached a decision, we will know our enemies by their responses.” He crossed himself and folded his hands, looking very placid. “It might be best if we retire at once, so that we can explore our thoughts in privacy; we will give nothing away to our enemies if we are silent.”

Cardinal Shumwoe nodded gravely, his densely black skin making him look like a walking shadow. “In the morning we must discuss our experiences. Until then, I am convinced Cardinal Folgar is right—the less we are together the less chance there is that we will weaken our position.” To provide an example he turned away and started toward his temporary cell.

“It is well-advised,” said Cardinal Hetre, indicating the other Canadian Cardinal, Victor, Cardinal Mnientek. “Come, Eminence.”

“For Canada?” asked Cardinal Mnientek with a lift to his brows; the mischief in his eyes was at odds with his angular Polish features.

“For the memory of Urban IX, and for the benefit of the Church,” said Cardinal Hetre. “We owe that much to his reign, surely; we all do,” he added pointedly.

Several Cardinals agreed, a few of them moving away with the two Canadians; others were confused by this failure of protocol and uncertain of what was best to do.

Charles, Cardinal Mendosa took up the case, standing as if he were about to get on a half-broke horse. “The less we say about this, the better. I’m not suggesting we should ignore it—nothing like that. But we need to have our priorities straight. After we have a Pope, then we can set about finding out what this thing was and who was behind it. In the meantime, I thought we better get a new kitchen staff while we’re in here. Something got hold of us, and if it wasn’t the Holy Spirit, it was probably in the air or the food. Those are the two things we all share. So we’ll start with the food: it’s easier.” He had one hand on his hip as if there might be a phantom six-gun under his fingers. “And when we find out who’s doing this, we’d best deal with them quickly and quietly. We don’t want any publicity getting out about this. You know the press would be all over us, and they’re bad enough as it is with every Bible-thumping preacher from one end of the world to the other talking about the Second Coming and the Antichrist.” He crossed himself. “God is better served without a lot of glitz and glamour.”

It galled Cardinal Folgar to agree with the tall, rangy Texan from Houston, but he knew it was the wisest course. “We are all aware it would be ill-advised for the world to learn of this.”

“Might give them ideas,” added Cardinal Mendosa. “They could take a notion to question everything, to think it’s all conspiracies. It’s bad enough watching the loonies on TV talking about the Second Coming as if it were a rock concert. I see a lot of that back home.”

Cardinal Folgar stifled the retort he longed to give about Americans in general and Texans in particular; instead he said, “We must think of the Church, how it is to endure the next three years, until we are safely launched on the new millennium.”

Cardinal van Hooven peered out through the pebble-thick lenses of his steel-rimmed spectacles. “Silence, Eminences. Silence first. Leave a little time for the soul to speak. We’ve already said too much, and confounded our minds. We must quiet the disorder within ourselves and turn our thoughts to the inner light where God is found.” He leaned on his cane as he made his way toward his temporary cell, saying as he went, “I will retire for the evening. You may concoct whatever tale you wish to placate the press.”

“He has the right idea,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Let’s just make sure that Father McEllton doesn’t end up with egg on his face, all right?” He looked around. “Okay. You: Gemme. You’re the one the press likes best. You can work out the right way to explain what’s going on in here, without telling them much. Make sure the reporters don’t spook you.” He touched his pectoral crucifix and his weathered face softened. “We owe it to the Church, Gemme.”

“Of course,” said Cardinal Gemme harshly.

“We’re depending on you.” Cardinal Mendosa grinned at Cardinal Gemme. “I’ll make special mention of you in my prayers, Eminence.”

Cardinal Gemme swung around and stalked away from the small remaining knot of Cardinals.

* * *

It was well into the night when Jivin, Cardinal Tayibha finally ceased his meditations. For the last two hours he had permitted himself to hope that the disastrous ballots were an isolated incident, something they had faced and defeated; now he wanted a little rest before the Cardinals met again. He thought of God, the mystery of Him, and for once was chilled instead of comforted. He rose from his knees and prepared himself for bed, hoping that the fragile serenity he had found for himself would sustain him into the morning when he would need it most.

As he slipped between the sheets, he had one last frisson of doubt: what if they were opposing the Will of God? What if that Chinese name was truly the mandate of the Holy Spirit, and not some clever psychological manipulation on the part of those seeking to sabotage the conclave and the Church? He recalled that anyone elected twice by the College of Cardinals could not refuse the Papacy; the Cardinals could not elect another Pope until the one elected twice had served. He shuddered as he closed his eyes.

With an effort he forced these unwelcome thoughts from his mind, unwilling to sleep with such questions for company, for he knew it led to the turbulence of the soul which the Cardinal could not endure.

* * *

From time to time Cardinal Hetre was plagued with nightmares, and never more than on this night. He tossed on his narrow bed, wishing he were back in Quebec instead of trapped here in Rome, a prisoner of the conclave. Sweat stood out on his brow; his arms thrashed against the sheets as if they were the most formidable bonds. In his dream he screamed and howled, but all that escaped his lips was a soft, pitiful moan.

Something pursued him, something he could not bring himself to face, something that had long ago sent him into the Church for safety, a personal Nemesis more terrible than the promise of Hell for those who sinned. He did not know why he was sought, and had no desire to find out. He wanted only to get away from the terrible thing, and that was the one wish he seemed destined not to be granted.

He sat up in bed and started to pray, quiet, personal petitions to the Virgin and to God for the peace that is not of this world, which had eluded him for so long.

* * *

Before the first bells of morning, Charles, Cardinal Mendosa awoke. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, wanting to be back in Houston: he hated Rome. Horrible thing for a Catholic to feel, let alone a Cardinal. Rome brought out the worst in him. It was nothing but a monument to its own swollen self-importance, and it colored the Church with grandiose traditions that still made him squirm. He was never more Texan than when he was in Rome.

A month before the conclave, he had received a delegation from the followers of the Reverend Robert Williamson, the most popular of the Fundamentalists preaching the Second Coming on television. The six men were successful and confident, trying to sway the Cardinal to their position in anticipation of the death of Pope Urban IX, who was lying in a coma at the Vatican. They presented their statistics and quoted Scripture, making it apparent they expected his cooperation. At the time he had been polite to mask his ire; now he was afraid that those followers of Reverend Williamson might have more strength than he first supposed. They had been so polished. They had told him—very discreetly, of course—that the Church was falling apart and that Reverend Williamson was looking to save the souls of all Christians.

These were not the Protestants Cardinal Mendosa was used to. These men were there to deliver a threat, to put him on notice that they were going to damage him and the Church as much and whenever possible. Never before had Cardinal Mendosa experienced such subtle malice from any Protestants, no matter how angry some of them might have been. Until that interview he had assumed that difficult though it occasionally was, Catholics and Protestants would find some way to rattle along together, their Christianity giving them common ground. After the Reverend Williamson’s men visited him, he was no longer certain of it.

Every day the conclave continued gave those slick, dangerous men—and those like them—more power and credibility. Cardinal Mendosa could feel it in the air, even here in Rome. And the dreams had come back. For the first time in almost a decade, he was having those eerie dreams that had brought him into the Church so long ago.

“We’re going to have to agree today,” he said softly to the darkness. “We don’t agree today and this thing’s gonna bust wide open.” He was not sure he was speaking to anyone other than himself. “If it busts wide open, then it’s all over. We’ll never get another Pope that everyone can accept.” Saying it aloud made him more convinced he was right, casting his thoughts back more than forty years, to the first dreams he had had that had disturbed Father Aloysius, the dearly flawed Irishman who had been his parish priest.

Cardinal Mendosa turned on his side and determinedly closed his eyes, wanting to be rid of the memory. “This is different,” he whispered, and saw the dreams again as clearly as he had at nine when he had been examined by Father Aloysius and then Bishop Parker, both men questioning him for hours about what he had seen in his dreams. They had finally dismissed them as the result of the boy’s vivid imagination, his vision of a Catholic President shot in Texas while riding in an open car surrounded by police.

And eight years later it happened, exactly as he had dreamed it. Cardinal Mendosa put his hand to his eyes as if that would block what he remembered. The new dreams were as unsettling and as unanswerable, and he found them as hard to turn from now as he had when he was a boy.

“We have to agree. Today,” he muttered, shivering in the bed. The new vision dismayed him, and he wanted to be free of it: a Pope who was not Catholic was unthinkable, no matter how theoretically and theologically possible. The Cardinals would have to agree today, or it would be too late.

The first deep bell of Saint Peter’s began to toll, a low E that shuddered on the pre-dawn air. Cardinal Mendosa heard it with relief as he threw back the covers and began his first prayers of the morning.

Chapter 2

“Habemus Papam!” came the glorious announcement to the assembled faithful in the oval-shaped plaza below. An answering cheer went up, and the thousands flocked more tightly toward the balcony where the news was given.

In the splendid Latin phrases—one of the few remaining rituals in the ancient tongue—it was proclaimed to the world that Ottone, Cardinal Folgar of Verona would reign as Celestine VI.

Again there were cheers, interspersed with a few derisive whistles, for Cardinal Folgar was an outspoken and staunch conservative who was not as popular as some of the Cardinals. In general the new Pope was greeted enthusiastically, for he had always stood firm against the radical elements in the Church, and for the traditional values of family and Catholicism.

“I sure hope we know what we’re doing,” Cardinal Mendosa whispered as the international press closed in for the story. He had dreamed again that night and what he had seen still troubled him.

“What do you think about the new Pope, Eminence?” asked a reporter with a strong Midwestern accent. “You being from Texas and all, does this Folgar seem like a good choice to you? Good for Americans as well as Italians, I mean?”

Cardinal Mendosa looked at the brash young man. “The word Catholic means universal. The election of the Pope is not the same popularity contest that most elections are. It is the Will of the Holy Spirit that determines who will wear the tiara.” He knew he sounded inexcusably stuffy, but he was in no mood to accommodate the newspeople who flocked around; the bargain the Cardinals had struck continued to rankle with him.

“Aw, come on, Cardinal,” the young man persisted. “You can’t tell me that popularity doesn’t enter into the Papacy. Everyone know that the Popes are as much political as religious. You said that yourself last year in Chicago. I can quote the lecture, if you like.” His smile was two notches off being a smirk.

“All right, I concede there is a political component to the Papal elections, as there are to all elections, I suspect. But we are subject to the rule of the Holy Spirit, and that must be the central concern of every conclave, to strive for the presence and to act on the Will of the Holy Spirit.” He thought of the identical Chinese name on all their ballots, ballots which they had destroyed.

“Is that what happened?” the reporter asked, and without waiting for an answer, continued. “What about what Reverend Williamson said last night? Do you want to comment about that?”

It took all of Cardinal Mendosa’s self-discipline not to give a sharp retort. He drew a deep breath. “Since I don’t know what Reverend Williamson said last night, I’m in no position to comment, and since Reverend Williamson is not Catholic, it would not be appropriate in any case.” He saw that his answer had not deterred the young reporter. On impulse he tried a new ploy. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me. I have said I will give an interview to Mister Foot, and I notice he’s waiting for me. You might try Cardinal Walgren.”

“Going with the big shots?” the young reporter demanded, unimpressed by the suggestion to speak with the charismatic Cardinal from Los Angeles. “Too bad I’m not the anchorman for INS or one of the other satellite networks; I might have a little pull. All Walgren ever talks about is Hispanic gangs and drug dealers.”

Cardinal Mendosa moved away from the young man, making his way along the velvet rope separating the Cardinals from the press toward the tall, lanky Brit in the silk sportcoat. As he went he comforted himself with the thought that he had not lied to the impertinent young reporter—he had a standing agreement with Fitzwilliam Foot to give him an interview any time it was requested, with the understanding that he would not be asked any seriously embarrassing questions. At a time like this, he thought, that was a rare consolation.

* * *

Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme faced the bright studio lights with the aplomb of experience. He was dressed in an expensive business suit, in keeping with the reforms of Urban IX, who had encouraged the adoption of secular dress; only the three pins on his lapel revealed his position and title in the Church.

“They’re saying that Celestine is another compromise, essentially another Urban.” The interviewer was smiling, feeding the Cardinal the arranged text. He nodded once, prepared to listen to what Cardinal Gemme had to say. The program, originating in Paris, was being sent all over the world via the INS satellite network. The Cardinal’s appearance on the program was his fifth in three years.

Cardinal Gemme lowered his handsome head, his features serious. “As I am sure everyone is aware, the obligations of the conclave are such that all we do there is, and must remain, secret. If the deliberations were not kept absolutely private, there would be opportunity for influence and manipulation from…oh, many groups, and that would impugn the credibility of the election, which is the manifestation of the Holy Spirit. That is the basis for belief in the Apostolic Succession. However, we are accountable to the Church and to God for the Pope we elect, and it is only fitting that we offer some observations on the new Pontiff. I think that most Catholics know something of Cardinal Folgar’s record, and are waiting to see how he will deal with the more pressing problems that confront the Church, given his previous position on such issues as women priests and family planning.” He folded his hands in his lap. “It is of paramount importance for Catholics the world over to support the Pope, for he is our intermediary to God on earth. We cannot limit our vision to Catholics alone if we are to do the work God has set for us in the world: it is also necessary for people of good will, Catholics or any other faith, to concern themselves with the welfare of their fellow-human beings. Charity is listed as the greatest virtue, no matter in what religious context it is offered. Jesus commanded us to love one another, for if we cannot do that, we cannot love God. He also said that what we do for the least of His people we do for Him as well.”

The interviewer cocked his head, as if the notion were brand new instead of part of their agreed-upon script. “You are known as a liberal, Your Eminence. The general consensus is that with a conservative in charge, Catholicism will continue to lag behind in necessary reforms, which you appear to advocate.”

This was the part that Gemme had been waiting for, his chance to begin to build his own support-base with the public. “I pray every morning that the Church will open her heart to the plight of the poor throughout the world and modify her stances on many social issues. I am a true son of the Church, but I am also a citizen of the world, at the end of the twentieth century. In good conscience, I can do no less than support changes, though some of my fellow-Cardinals do not agree with me. There are those who say that it is for the Church to look after the spiritual needs of Catholics before all other issues. Yet for many Catholics, the spiritual and the mundane are one in the same. A poor mother in Guatemala or Rome or Java faces the same problems, and the Church has failed to address them realistically, though we have sufficient evidence to indicate that if such genuine grievances are neglected, it leads to a loss of faith and social upheaval, sometimes to violent revolution.” He looked directly into the lens of the camera, his dark-blue eyes so fixed that it seemed he was truly looking at all those watching the interview instead of the camera. “Catholics have a right to expect their Church to aid them in need, to give them hope and comfort, and to show them the glory that God has prepared for all of us.”

The interviewer ran his finger under his neat moustache. “Strong sentiments, Cardinal Gemme.”

“Yes,” he said, as modestly as possible.

* * *

“Did you see that idiot Gemme on television last night?” demanded Cardinal Jung as he stormed into the small reception room where the Pope had requested an informal discussion with his Cardinals that evening, to be followed by a dinner. He signaled for a servant and ordered a brandy, then went on. “He wasn’t content to wait! Celestine has been Pope for less than a week, and already Gemme is sniping at him! I’m only sorry we cannot try him for heresy, given what he has done. There is no telling what he will do next.” He stared hard at Cardinal Tayibha. “I wonder what they thought of him in India?”

“I have heard nothing yet; it is too soon to tell.” The Indian Cardinal shrugged, wanting desperately to avoid the whole issue. He wished Cardinal Cadini had come early, for the benign Genoese had no difficulty in handling Cardinal Jung, or anyone else, for that matter.

Cardinal Pingari looked up from the magazine he had been reading. “In Manila they liked what he said but not how he said it. My secretary called an hour ago to tell me.”

“The coronation is barely over, and Gemme is trying to worm his way into the position of heir apparent,” said Cardinal Jung with abhorrence. “He is blatant in his plan.”

“Meaning he stole the march on you?” suggested Cardinal Belleau.

“‘He who enters the conclave a Pope comes out a Cardinal,’” quoted Cardinal van Hooven, his smile behind his thick lenses making him look more like an owl than he usually did.

“There is no saying what he might arrange,” said Cardinal Jung, but with less bluster. “He knows that we cannot afford to ignore public sentiment. He is exploiting our weakness, hoping to use this millennial hysteria to sway Catholics to his support. And we may have to answer him with the same techniques. May God forgive us, but if that were not the case, if the laity were not so torn, we might not have had to destroy those ballots, but could have revealed them for the fraud they were.” He looked around as the servant brought his brandy on a silver tray. Cardinal Jung took the crystal snifter and dismissed the servant with a wave of his hand.

“Where is Celestine?” asked Cardinal Montebranco, who looked as if he had just awakened from a nap. “An odd choice in names, Celestine. We haven’t had a Celestine in centuries.”

“We hadn’t had an Urban, either,” Cardinal Tayibha pointed out. “It is a worthy name, with a good heritage. Neither Urban nor Celestine are tainted by recent events, as some others are.”

“His Holiness will be here shortly, I trust. It is almost the hour he designated,” said Cardinal O’Higgins, setting aside the Spanish-language newspaper he had been skimming. “I don’t like the way the European banks have been reacting to our new Pope. They seem to think the Church and Vatican bank will withdraw its support of European currency.” He stood up; unlike most of the others he was in a suit and tie instead of red or black cassocks. “I spoke with him this afternoon. He called to ask about the rumors of a coup in Honduras.”

Cardinal Jung put his snifter down. “Is Gemme going to be here this evening? Will we have to see him?”

“I think he is still in Paris,” said Cardinal Montebranco. “There’s no reason for him to be here in any case. In fact, it would be tactless, given his recent remarks.”

There were fourteen Cardinals to dine that night, all those remaining in Rome after the coronation of Celestine VI, with the exception of Rafaele, Cardinal Tondocello of Palermo, who was confined to his bed at the Vatican with kidney trouble. Within half an hour of the stated time, all fourteen were gathered in the reception room awaiting the arrival of Celestine VI. Conversation remained desultory; no one wanted to appear inattentive when the Pope joined them.

At last Father McEllton opened the door and bowed to the assembled Cardinals. “If you will be good enough to accompany me, Eminences?” He indicated the hallway. “His Holiness is ready to receive you.”

An unpromising sign, thought Cardinal Tayibha. Ottone Folgar had been Pope less than a week and already he was putting distance between himself and the Cardinals. He feared that Celestine had forgot how vulnerable he could be as Pope. The Indian Cardinal rose with the others and permitted himself to be led to the private dining room, knowing that it was a show of favor to dine there and knowing also that he felt slighted by the honor.

Celestine VI was wearing a white satin cassock and an antique pectoral crucifix glittering with gold and gems. His smile was as reserved and self-satisfied as a cat's. He blessed his Cardinals as they came into the room and gave a formal opening prayer before he indicated where his guests should sit at table. “Come. It is fitting that we dine together, as Our Lord did with His disciples.”

The service, Cardinal Tayibha noticed, was fine, gold-trimmed porcelain, the utensils heavy baroque silver, the napery damask linen, the complement of four wine-glasses, per setting, of delicate crystal. He doubted that Jesus would recognize such luxury as being in keeping with His standard of entertainment, and quashed the thought even as it formed in his mind. He took his place between Cardinal Pingari and Cardinal Fiorivi, and was momentarily sorry that Cardinal Mendosa had already left for the United States, along with the other six U.S. Cardinals. He bowed his head before Celestine spoke the blessing of their meal.

The trout had been removed and replaced with collops of spring lamb cooked with a puree of pomegranate and garlic, when Pope Celestine finally began to address the Cardinals. “I have been informed that there is a movement in Latin America to add new Voodoo-like elements to the Mass, as a means of bringing more of the people back to the Church. Now, that smacks of heresy to me. Oh, I know we’re not to use so unpopular a word as heresy in these times, but we must not flinch from our duty. I have informed the Cardinals, Archbishops, and Bishops of Latin America that any such additions or interpolations can be grounds for excommunication.”

Cardinal O’Higgins made a respectful gesture toward the Pope. “Your Holiness, I believe that you would lose a quarter of the priests in Latin America if you require such restrictions. They are trying to work with the people, in ways the people can understand. This is a difficult time for Latin America, and it will not get easier, not for some years, possibly decades, to come. It was not so long ago that the people of Latin America were little more than slaves to European masters and the Church. It is fitting that we show our—”

“Are you telling me that there is no way to bring them into the Church except to permit them to pervert their worship with worship of Satan?” Celestine asked, his voice dangerously low. “Can it be that you sympathize with these elements in the Church, my son?”

The Mexican Cardinal winced but went doggedly on. “No, Your Holiness, I do not sympathize with their philosophy, or their theology, but I do sympathize with their plight. These priests are not attempting to change the Church, believe me, or to pervert the Word of God; they are trying to bring God to their people in the only way people will accept Him.”

A sudden quiet settled over the table. “I suppose you have given the matter some thought? It would seem that you have formed an opinion, haven’t you?” Celestine inquired politely. “Perhaps you have tolerated it. You deny it, but it may be that in your heart you see no harm in what is being done?”

Now Cardinal O’Higgins’ impish face froze. “No, that’s not what I meant, Holiness—”

He was not to be allowed to finish. “Perhaps you are satisfied with Satan being let into the house of God, but I am not.” The Pope was speaking with determination now, and his eyes were as harsh as his voice. “I am a more vigilant warder than you are, my son. I see you have permitted yourself to be misled in this matter. No doubt it is merely from lack of appreciation of the gravity of the situation. I am certain that after a week’s reflection in a proper retreat, you will come to see the wisdom of our decisions; for we have decided to speak officially on this issue, and promptly, before the wickedness becomes more ingrained in the souls of the Latin Americans than it already is.” He gestured to Cardinal O’Higgins. “You have our permission to depart at once, my son. Your retreat will be arranged tonight, when this dinner is concluded. There will be time for your confession and the assignment of penance before you leave. Pax vobiscum.”

Several of the Cardinals exchanged worried glances as Cardinal O’Higgins rose obediently from the table, went to the Pope to kneel and kiss his ring, then turned away toward the door.

When Cardinal O’Higgins was gone, Celestine went on. “I was not pleased to read what Cardinal Gemme said at his interview. He has exceeded his authority as a Prince of the Church, and is preaching open sedition. He may not believe that we are aware of this, but he will not continue in this way. We have decided that he must learn humility, and we will set him a task that will develop it, improving his soul.”

A few of the Cardinals expressed their approval, but most were guarded. Cardinal van Hooven shook his head. “You’re letting the weight of the tiara addle your brain, Ottone,” he said, with the privilege of forty years’ friendship. “You are becoming trapped in the office you occupy.”

“It is not an office,” said Celestine stiffly.

“Of course it is—the Papacy is the most rigorously administrative office in the world. You are fascinated by the authority it has given you, but that means nothing if the machinery of the Church does not operate well. They say that Popes come and go, but the Curia is eternal. So is the College of Cardinals. If you do not cooperate with the Curia and the College, the operation of the Church will falter. It has happened before.” This last warning was delivered with a wise nod. “And I will save you the trouble of dismissing me. I know I have overstepped my authority, and my welcome.” He was on his feet, reaching for the cane he had slipped over the back of the chair. He made his way to the head of the table to kneel and kiss Celestine’s ring. “Think about what I’ve said, Ottone. We are in perilous times and we must have a steady hand on the tiller if we are to win through the millennium.” He got to his feet with difficulty and tottered toward the door.

“Piet—” the Pope began, then gave him a sharp gesture of dismissal. He looked at the remainder of the diners, forcing them to return his gaze. “We wish to discuss,” he said in a tone that would accept no opposition, “the matter of the Protestant Fundamentalists who are preaching the Second Coming. They are finding support among many Catholics, which is most distressing. Even the Separatists with their travesty of the Vatican are saying that Our Lord will return before the year 2001, and the world will be restored to God.”

“Yes?” said Cardinal Pingari. “What do you wish us to do about it?”

Celestine cut himself a morsel of lamb. “We must put an end to this absurd claim. It is not fitting that we surrender to the same frenzy that has taken hold in so much of the Protestant community.” He looked directly at Bruno, Cardinal Hauptburger of Salzberg. “You have direct experience with these foolish people, don’t you? What do you recommend?”

The Austrian Cardinal stopped eating and stared at the Pope. “Nothing I have tried thus far has stopped the madness.”

“So. We will have to adopt stringent methods.” There was dismay in many of the Cardinals’ faces but Celestine decided to ignore this silent warning. “The millennium is to be set aside for a Jubilee, for the triumph of the Church. That will bring our flocks back, I am sure.”

“Of course,” said Cardinal Cadini with all his reputed tact, but it was plain that neither he nor most of the rest believed the Pope.

* * *

In the VIP lounge at Dulles Airport, Charles, Cardinal Mendosa sat with Alexander, Cardinal Bradeston of Boston, both of them on the last leg of their respective journeys home. Each of them was tired after the conclave, the coronation and then four days in Washington D.C. making the rounds of governmental and diplomatic functions in answer to the endless questions about the new Pontiff. Now, with sour-tasting coffee in their cups, they were content to stare at the television screen on the far side of the room where a celebrated black athlete and a famous Russian ballet dancer discussed their training routines.

“Must be a slow day for news,” said Cardinal Bradeston. “If this is the best they can come up with at nine-thirty.…” He laughed a bit.

“Daytime television,” Cardinal Mendosa summed up. “At least it isn’t about the Pope.” He had been up half the night in the wake of another visionary dream; he was having trouble concentrating thanks to his lack of sleep and the faint, ill-defined persistence of what he had seen. “Listen to them, arguing about chicken.”

Once again Cardinal Bradeston laughed. “I hope the housekeeper is listening. All she ever does is fry it.” He drank more of the dreadful coffee.

The interviewer, a young woman dressed in expensive running gear, was in the middle of a long question about health routines when the show was interrupted. The dignified anchorman of INS appeared, neat but flustered. In the background was the dome of Saint Peter’s.

Cardinal Bradeston groaned. “Now what’s Ottone done?”

“Probably wants to bring back fasting,” said Cardinal Mendosa flippantly, reaching to turn up the sound. “Just in case.”

“—have pronounced him dead, only nine days after his coronation.”

Cardinal Mendosa was on his feet, overturning his coffee. “Bloody hell!”

“What.…” Cardinal Bradeston said, crossing himself automatically. “Who’s dead?”

“—had taken the name Celestine VI, was regarded as—”

“Was?” Cardinal Bradeston echoed.

“That’s what he said,” Cardinal Mendosa observed grimly, thinking that he would have to return to Rome.

“—and it was assumed by many that the division between conservatives and liberals within the Church would not be healed during his reign. Death appears to have been the result of a massive stroke. The Vatican has ordered a full autopsy at once, promising a complete disclosure of results, and engaged Interpol and the EECPA to investigate if there is any trace of wrongdoing.”

Father McEllton’s haggard face appeared on the screen, his name and position beneath him in three languages. “It was so sudden,” he said in a shaken voice. “He was celebrating Mass; he often preferred to wait until midmorning to celebrate Mass, so that more of the congregation could…could.…” He put his hand to his face. “He was about to elevate the Host. He trembled, spilled the wine, and then he fell.”

Stephen Goldman’s face filled the screen once again. “To repeat: Celestine VI, newly elected Pope of the Roman Catholic Church died minutes ago in Rome, believed to be the victim of a stroke. He succeeded Urban IX, who reigned for twenty-seven months following the death of John-Paul II. INS will continue to keep you up to date as developments occur.” He gave his famous one-sided smile, and the athletes came back on, the young woman looking terribly shocked.

Cardinal Bradeston turned off the television and dropped to his knees to pray; a moment later Cardinal Mendosa knelt beside him.

* * *

On the plane from Montreal, Dominique, Cardinal Hetre fell into an uneasy sleep, his soul in unadmitted turmoil. Only when he cried out did he realize the dread that had all but consumed him was part of his dream.

“Are you all right, Cardinal Hetre?” The senior steward was in his thirties, a good-looking man who obviously took his passengers’ care to heart. He bent over the Cardinal, solicitous and wary. “Is something wrong? You were…dreaming.”

Cardinal Hetre shook his head. “It’s nothing. All the coming and going. My body doesn’t know what time zone it’s in. I find it very upsetting. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed the other passengers. With Celestine and all…we’re shocked.” He thought he was babbling but could not stop himself.

“Can I get you anything? A cognac, perhaps?” On his first-class information sheet he had a record of the Cardinal’s preferred label, which he had made an effort to stock for the flight.

“Cognac?” repeated Cardinal Hetre as if he was not certain of the meaning of the word.

“To calm you.” The steward’s manner was as soothing as the drink he offered, his manner sincere. “The galley is busy right now. We’ll have dinner served in half an hour. In the meantime.…” The offer hung between them.

“Yes. Cognac, if you please.” He made himself sit straighter, sorry now that he had worn his cassock; in a business suit he would have been less conspicuous. What was it about his dreams that terrified him so? He could not bring himself to ask the steward if he had said anything, though he wanted to know what, if anything, he had revealed.

“Coming right up, Your Eminence.”

* * *

Not even Vitale, Cardinal Cadini could lighten the oppressive mood of the conclave. Cardinal Shumwoe spoke for all when he said, “This time we must not be hasty.”

“No, we must not,” agreed Cardinal Fiorivi. “I fear we may have erred before, in our zeal.” He looked at the others, his strong Latin features filled with purpose. “This time we must be…more attentive.”

Cardinal van Hooven, peering out of his glasses at the rest, added, “The Church is a worldly enterprise, Eminences, but for spiritual reasons. Let us not lose track of that; our goals are spiritual, not worldly. Our worldly power is only the means to our spiritual ends.”

“But it is the worldly power that demands more attention,” said Cardinal Cadini. “We must remember the world, for it watches us day and night.”

“Speaking of the world, Willie Foot was waiting for me at the airport,” said Cardinal Sinclair of Dublin. “He requested an interview at the conclusion of the conclave.”

Several of the other Cardinals nodded in response, and the ferocious, aged Andrew, Cardinal Aquilino of Chicago said with disgust, “We might as well give him some kind of pass to cover the conclave. He’ll manage to do it after the fact.”

Cardinal Pingari winced. “Please,” he said. “This must not be for the newsmedia or the entertainment of the world; we must do as we are commanded to do, and open our hearts to the Holy Spirit.” He saw Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung, raise his hand as if to shield his face; the last few days had been difficult for the outspoken and conservative Swiss. “Each of us must search his heart and soul.”

Hunfredo, Cardinal Montebranco raised an admonitory finger. “We know what we are to do, Eminence. We recognize the consequences of our acts here. You need not lecture us.”

“Are we agreed that the first two days will be days of silence?” asked Michon, Cardinal Belleau, who had been given the task of serving as conclave monitor, a function reestablished and redefined by John-Paul II. “And we accept Father Delvecchio in Father McEllton’s place.” He stepped up to affix his signature and seal to the document of conclave terms. “I didn’t always go along with John-Paul, but these reforms were a very good idea.”

Cardinal O’Higgins came after him. “I pray that after this conclave we will not need them again for a while.”

His prayer was endorsed by the rest.

* * *

Cardinal Mendosa rubbed his eyes and reluctantly looked at the vellum strip, anticipating what he would see there. Only a moment before he had cast his first vote, and for an instant he felt that other-worldliness he had experienced at the last conclave. Some of the sensation still lingered, a fuzziness at the edge of his sight, an unsteadiness of ground beneath him. His hand trembled as he set the crow-quill pen aside.

He stared down at the marks as a grue fizzed along his spine. There they were, the same characters as before. Very slowly he put the vellum in the foil-lined envelope and began to heat the stick of wax to seal it.

They had vowed not to speak, but most of the Cardinals could hardly contain themselves when Father Delvecchio came to them, much shocked, to stammer an apology about their ballots.

“Father Zirhendakru s-said the name—”

Cardinal Belleau gave a fatalistic shrug. “Is Chinese,” he finished for the horrified priest. “Yes. We know.”

Chapter 3

Over his morning coffee Fitzwilliam Ellery Jocelin Foot reviewed the notes he had made during the last few days. He had not yet shaved and his robe was knotted loosely over his pyjama-bottoms. The sunlight coming in through the tall windows made his dining table glisten where it was not strewn with papers. Beyond his small balcony Rome was warming up in heat and noise.

When the phone rang he retrieved it from the alcove and sat down once more. “Pronto,” he said as he answered.

“Willie,” said Cardinal Mendosa, his Texas accent at its strongest. “Are you going to be in for a while?”

“I can be,” Willie Foot answered, trying not to reveal the excitement he felt from the call. “I have to go out around eleven-thirty.”

“I’ll be there before then,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “I won’t keep you long. Promise.”

“Is this about the recessing of the conclave?” Willie inquired as innocently as he could; every journalist in the world was trying to get a story on the astonishing announcement that the Cardinals had elected to suspend the conclave for thirty days, and would resume their deliberations at that time.

Cardinal Mendosa answered indirectly. “There’s something we have to discuss. It’s urgent and confidential.”

Willie was glad he did not have one of the new videophones, for Cardinal Mendosa might be put off by his enormous grin. “I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

“I’ll be there within the hour,” said Cardinal Mendosa, and hung up.

Now that it was no longer necessary to contain his satisfaction, Willie gave a long, loud whistle. He put the phone back in the alcove and went to the kitchen to get the rest of his thick, dark coffee. As he sat down once more, he pulled up one of his many writing pads and began to make more notes to himself. He wished now that his laptop computer was not being repaired; he wanted to review the files he had on Charles, Cardinal Mendosa of Houston, Texas.

* * *

After a short hesitation, Cardinal van Hooven looked at Cardinal Jung, his expression filled with dismay. “I am an old man, and I fear I do not hear as well as I used to, Eminence.”

“You heard me well enough,” said Cardinal Jung as he came to the side of the Dutchman. “We must take advantage of this adjournment to agree on how we are to arrange matters for the Church.” He folded his hands piously. “We have an obligation.”

“We certainly do,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “We are obliged to carry out the Will of God. We have chosen the same Pope twice.” He leaned back in his chair and peered up through his thick lenses at his Swiss colleague. “Surely there is no reason for me to remind you of that, is there?”

“You’re confused,” Jung stated, his face darkening. “It has overtaken us all—the result of shock, no doubt. We have had much to contend with, and we have lost sight of our task.” He chose the largest chair in the room and turned it so that it faced Cardinal van Hooven.

“Which is to carry out the Will of God,” said Cardinal van Hooven, his mildness unable to disguise his tenacity.

“Certainly that is what we must do. We cannot allow fantasy and caprice to turn us from that task.” He sat down, smoothing the satin of his cassock and crossing his legs at the ankle. “There are many among us capable of filling the Throne of Saint Peter. We must decide quickly which of us it will be.”

“It will be the one nominated by the Holy Spirit,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “That has become obvious, I should have thought. We must not assume we have greater understanding than the God we serve.” He permitted himself a slight, pixie smile. “Or do you want to vote again, so that we may practice our Chinese calligraphy once more?”

“Don’t make light of our predicament,” Cardinal Jung warned. “This is a crisis for the Church and we are failing her in her hour of need.”

“We certainly will be if we do not find this Chinese man.” Cardinal van Hooven removed his glasses and busied himself polishing them. “Of course we can repeat the travesty, if you insist, but we know already what will happen, don’t we? We will elevate another of our members and in a week or two or three there will be another conclave; the characters will remind us of our duty.”

“There are millions upon millions of Chinese. Very few of them are Catholic.” For Cardinal Jung, this was sufficient to dismiss the whole question. “It is ridiculous to mount a search when it is clear to everyone that the most capable men are here, ready and prepared for the task. No matter how devout this Chinese may be, he cannot be able to fulfill the office of Pope.”

“The Holy Spirit seems to think otherwise. Forgive me, Eminence,” said Cardinal van Hooven as he donned his glasses once more. “I must tell you what I observe: you hunger to be Pope and you are determined to have the Throne for yourself. I am sorry for it, because it blinds you to what we must do.” He rose, tucking his folded newspaper under his arm.

Cardinal Jung was rigid in the massive chair. “You do not intend to support those fools who have said we must find a way to locate this Chinese. Surely you’re more realistic. You are not a credulous simpleton from an impoverished country of superstitious people, you are—”

“A psychiatrist from Antwerp,” said Cardinal van Hooven with a gentle sigh. “Shocking, isn’t it, that I would want to accept the Will of God so readily.” His eyes twinkled hugely behind the lenses.

“It makes no sense!” Cardinal Jung burst out.

“If I were as ambitious as you are, I would probably think so, because I would see my chance to rule being snatched away from me, and by something so unacceptable as an unknown Chinese.” He rose. “You must pardon me, Eminence, but I am bidden to supper at the Russian embassy; it would not do for me to be late.”

“Russians!” Cardinal Jung scoffed. “They’re conciliating now that they have lost control of so many of their buffer countries. Remember that they are just like the bears that are their symbol: they can be taught to dance after a fashion, but that doesn’t get rid of their claws and teeth. And size.” His mouth turned down at the corners.

“As I understand it, Metropolitan Gosteshenko wishes to pay an official visit to us, and apparently this is going to be the first round of questions about it.” He saw the surprise in Cardinal Jung’s face. “I’ve met Metropolitan Gosteshenko twice before. I suppose that is why they chose to speak to me; with no Pope the protocol is less formal, but less certain. My Russian is not expert, but I can manage to converse.” His smile was more benign than ever.

Many things annoyed Cardinal Jung—rock music, Neo-German restaurants within sight of Saint Peter’s, European women’s fashions, television programs about birth control, the decline of academic standards in Catholic schools, abstract crucifixes, Protestant Christmas carols, Church officials in secular dress—but nothing irritated him as much as having someone leave his company before he dismissed him. He glared at Cardinal van Hooven. “If it is necessary, or if you must go, then go” he said grudgingly.

“Probably not in the same way food and shelter are, but—” Whatever else he was going to say was lost; Cardinal van Hooven slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him.

* * *

Out of his Cardinal’s finery, Charles Mendosa looked like a rich American tourist: his suit was a conservatively cut, understatedly expensive charcoal wool; his shirt was not white but ecru, of silk broadcloth; his tie, a heavy dull-red damask silk, was just the right width. At first glance he appeared to be wearing black shoes, but a closer look revealed black-on-black cowboy boots. Only his lapel pin proclaimed his position.

“So to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Willie Foot was (as he described himself) weedy, reedy, and tweedy. Their table at the restaurant was secluded enough to ensure their privacy, but Willie was savvy about such interviews and allowed the Cardinal to sit with his back to the room. They spoke quietly, and in English.

“It’s difficult,” said Cardinal Mendosa.

“Difficult how?” Willie inquired in the same tone he might have used to ask the waiter if the rolls were fresh-baked.

“Difficult internationally,” said Cardinal Mendosa, then sighed. “We have to get into the People’s Republic.”

“China?” asked Willie, continuing, “Get into how literally?” He knew better than to make notes, but he activated his palm-sized tape recorder.

Cardinal Mendosa smiled at once. “I’m not going there myself or I don’t think I am.” He glanced up as the waiter approached and ordered a fruit-and-cheese platter and a bottle of Lacrima Christi in excellent Italian. “This one is on me. And I mean me, Charles Ruy Mendosa, not my Eminence.” His gentle self-mockery was familiar to Willie Foot, who suspected that many of the Cardinals did not understand the Texan’s humor.

“Thanks. And you’re scaring the shit out of me.” He said it as a joke but he was concerned.

“I don’t mean to,” Mendosa answered, frowning at the top of the table. “No offence, Willie, but will you turn off that damned machine of yours?”

Willie Foot was experienced enough to conceal his surprise. “All right, if you’ll give me your word that you’ll let me have a proper interview as soon as it’s possible.”

“Done,” said Mendosa, relief obvious on his rugged face. “Thanks. You’ll get your interview.”

Willie thumbed off the tape recorder. “What is it, then?”

Mendosa did not answer at once. When he did, he pitched his voice even lower. “There is someone in Szechwan Province, near the town of Hongya, someone named Zhuang Renxin. We have to find him.” Unbidden, a face from his dreams filled his mind, and he made himself shut it away.

“What are we talking about?” Willie saw the waiter coming back with their order and signaled Mendosa to silence. As the platter was laid in front of them, he filled their glasses and repeated the question.

“The Church,” said Mendosa bluntly. “This is for the Church.”

“Really.” Willie was skeptical but not impolite.

“Yes,” said Mendosa. He picked up his glass but did not drink. “We’re at a disadvantage here. We have records of three priests still in rural China, but not one of them is in Szechwan Province. And we’re not sure how reliable these priests are. They’ve been isolated and one of them was in prison for five years.” He put his glass down untasted. “It would be as difficult to reach those three men as it would be to reach this Zhuang Renxin, I suspect.”

“Is this urgent? contacting Zhuang?” Willie asked, fascinated by Mendosa’s predicament; he resisted speculating beyond the minimum.

“Very urgent, I’m afraid.” This time when he picked up his glass he drank, not much, but as if the wine were vital as water.

Willie resisted his inclination to demand more information. He pondered the matter. “Does this need to be public or private?”

“It will be public, eventually, one way or another, and there’s nothing we can do about it,” said Mendosa grimly. “If we can keep it private for a while longer, I’d appreciate it.”

“I see.” In fact, Willie was more baffled than ever. “Am I the only person working on this? Other than you?”

“No,” said Mendosa. “There are five others, but frankly, I think you’re the best bet, or I wouldn’t be here.” He broke a small crusty roll in half and reached for the cheese knife.

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me who else is involved?” He knew before he asked that Mendosa would refuse.

“I’m sorry; the matter is very confidential. Very delicate.” Mendosa sniffed the soft, blue-veined cheese he had spread. “Wonderful.”

“Someone in Szechwan Province—that’s the central part of the People’s Republic, isn’t it?” Willie knew China well; he wanted to test Mendosa’s knowledge of the country.

“Hongya is almost due east of Chongqing,” said Mendosa. “That’s according to the most recent map. Hongya seems to be in the foothills of the Tibetan plateau.” He took a generous bite from his roll.

“You’ve been doing some research,” Willie observed.

“We’ve all been,” said Mendosa around the roll.

“Yeah.” Willie lowered his head so that Mendosa could not see his face. There were dozens of questions he wanted to ask, but knew better than to press the lanky Texan. “All right, why do you want to find this guy? What’s so important about him?” When he realized that Mendosa was having trouble framing an answer he added, “One of your pals have a Chinese skeleton in the closet?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mendosa slowly. “Not the way you mean. Not either way, come to think of it.” He finished his wine suddenly, impulsively, and refilled his glass. “But during this…recess of the conclave, it is important we find Zhuang Renxin.”

“Meaning you aren’t going to tell me any more,” said Willie, cutting himself a slice of melon. “Doesn’t make my job easier if you take that tack with me, Eminence.”

“I apologize,” said Mendosa, frowning at the use of his title.

Willie went on as if he had not noticed Mendosa’s displeasure. “If it were possible to use public means, I’d call Dame Leonie Purcell, just to see what she might be able to arrange. She’s officially British Ambassador to Hong Kong now; she’s in a good place to help out. Unofficially, if that’s your preference,” he added as an afterthought.

“I’m not certain we want to be so…visible,” said Mendosa. He devoured the rest of his cheese-spread roll.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Willie, and had another sip of wine. “How very mysterious you are.”

“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” said Mendosa with an expression of distaste. “Despite the reputation of the Church, I dislike having to use these methods.”

Willie shrugged. “Well, if you’re convinced that it does need to be this way, then what am I to do?” He cocked his head to the side, taking stock of the Cardinal from Houston. “I respect you, Eminence. I assume that your problem is not trivial and that you are under pressure. Am I correct thus far?”

“Pretty much,” said Mendosa, his drawl on full.

“Fine.” He leaned back in his chair and glanced around the restaurant, noting that the party three tables away was dawdling over cordials. “Locate a Zhuang Renxin near Hongya in the middle of China. Right you are. Is that all, or do you want something more.”

Mendosa caught a sliver of melon on the tines of his fork. “Finding Zhuang Renxin is more than enough, Willie. If you can succeed in locating him and making it possible for someone from the Vatican to…contact him, I will remember you in my prayers from now until the day I die, and always with gratitude.”

“Gracious,” said Willie in mock astonishment. “I’ll get right on it, Eminence. I can probably use all the prayers I can get.” He helped himself to wine and refilled the Cardinal’s glass. “When do you want this information?”

“Immediately,” said Mendosa. “But I’ll call you tomorrow evening, and every evening thereafter until you have some news for me.”

Willie nodded. “And if one of the other Cardinals turns up this fellow for you, what then?”

“Then I will give you the interview as promised and remember you in my prayers no matter what.” He signaled the waiter and ordered a double espresso, indicating that Willie would order for himself. “I’m counting on your discretion, Willie. I don’t want this leaking to half the press in Europe by tomorrow night. Or next week. Or any time before we authorize it.”

“I can’t guarantee what any of the rest will do. You say I’m not the only one being contacted about this Chinese guy; well, who’s to say if they’ll keep their mouths shut? A secret is something only one man knows. Otherwise.…” He was not enjoying himself as much as he thought he would, for the prospect of trying to locate an unknown person in central China weighed on him.

“They may not. But you're the only newsman, and if the others leak the story we’ll be able to trace them.” He took another bit of wine but did not finish the glass. “Prudence, Willie. Prudence.”

“Sounds worse and worse,” said Willie, then nodded twice. “I’ll keep it quiet as long as possible, but once the story breaks, I’ve got to get on top of it.”

“I’m not asking you to compromise your professionalism, only to recognize mine,” said Mendosa.

“Aren’t you?” Willie countered. “Well, you might not be at that, not by your lights, old son.”

“Thank you,” said Mendosa gravely.

Willie saw the waiter approaching. “Here comes your coffee.”

* * *

Cardinal van Hooven strolled beside the formidable bulk of the Metropolitan Pavel Gosteshenko, pointing out Castel’ Sant’ Angelo on the far side of the bridge. It was warm though the sun was hanging low in the west, and the two men did not press their pace, for heat as much as fatigue and age. Cardinal van Hooven had met the Metropolitan’s plane three hours earlier and had promised his guest a lavish Italian dinner in an hour or so; they were killing time.

“A fine statue,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko in Russian.

He was answered in the same tongue. “They repaired it a few years ago. There was metal fatigue involved. Some local engineers were afraid it was no longer securely balanced and might fall.” Cardinal van Hooven indicated the scaffolding around the feet of the angel. “As you see, they are not entirely finished yet.”

“Still, a fine statue. Not a subject we see often in Russia any more, unfortunately.” He stopped. “That statue must have the best view of the city.”

“One of them, certainly,” said Cardinal van Hooven.

“A fine place, Rome, but decadent. It is the very heart of the decadence of the West.” He touched the pectoral crucifix that lay just below his beard.

“And the East has never been decadent? How badly we in the West have been misinformed,” said Cardinal van Hooven quietly.

“Ah, that is another matter,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko. “The West has never understood luxury, and indulgence instead of excess. A fine line, I admit. Still, the East knows luxury for what it is.” He laughed suddenly, explosively. “And what do I know of it? As a man of God I turned away from such things before I truly knew what they were.”

“Does that sadden you?” Cardinal van Hooven asked as he resumed walking.

“Occasionally. I am a man, and at sixty, I cannot help but reflect on my life. I see others who have committed many sins and who have nonetheless prospered. I see others who have tried to live virtuously who have been cast down. My wife used to say that God punished too much virtue just as He punished too much vice.” He indicated the traffic hurtling down the street. “This is not a luxury, but it is certainly an excess.”

Cardinal van Hooven smiled. He was dressed in a plain cassock, very little differently than any other priest in Rome, though his lapel pin was indication enough of his rank to anyone who recognized it. “In your view, is it wise for the clergy to marry?”

Metropolitan Gosteshenko hedged expertly. “Your Church does not think so; my Church does not agree.”

“And you, Pavel, what do you think?” Cardinal van Hooven waited expectantly as they continued along the street where modern glass-and-steel vied with the Baroque for supremacy.

“I know I have been a better priest and a better Metropolitan because I had a wife for most of my sixty years. But it may be that I was fortunate in my wife—I am very sure I was—and I may be a poor judge because God sent me Marina.” He looked down into the Dutch Cardinal’s face. “Is that a more acceptable answer?”

“Oh, there is no question about acceptance,” said Cardinal van Hooven, appearing a little baffled by the challenge. “I am curious, that’s all.”

“Is it?” the massive Russian asked. His beard was brushed to a high shine and his cheeks were rosy. There was sweat along the band of his hat but he did not seem uncomfortable in spite of his engulfing vestments. “Is there somewhere we can purchase gelato? With national borders opening and closing and changing as they have been doing, who knows when I will have such an opportunity again?”

Cardinal van Hooven smiled once more. “Halfway down the next block. The raspberry is especially good.”

After they had purchased their cones and found a marble bench to sit on, the Metropolitan finished half his raspberry-and-bittersweet-chocolate gelato before he said, “What is this all about, my friend?”

“Your embassy—” Cardinal van Hooven began.

“What do you want?” Metropolitan Gosteshenko cut in, not rudely. “If we keep up this dance it will be the middle of next year before you or I will know what is going on.” He looked at the remainder of his cone. “Perhaps the West has a little understanding of luxury, after all.”

It was more than two minutes before Cardinal van Hooven said, “Do you have any useful connections in the People’s Republic?”

Whatever Metropolitan Gosteshenko was expecting, it was not this. “China? What can you want with China?” He shook his head slowly. “That is one border that has remained closed, at least to us. The British might be more helpful, through Hong Kong.”

While it did not take Cardinal van Hooven as long to reply this time, he still required a short while to formulate his reply. “We are looking for a person there.”

“We. The Church? One of your missing priests,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko. “It is related to this…this unusual suspension of the conclave, I would guess? The missing priest—”

“There is a connection between the recessing of the conclave and the person in China,” said Cardinal van Hooven.

Metropolitan Gosteshenko ate the rest of his gelato. “Our connections with China are not very good, not even for such benign tasks. We have our adherents there, of course, but they are not many and most are in the north-west. With the political situation so explosive, we must be careful. But I suppose that I might be able to find some assistance if I demanded it. You know how things are for Christians in Russia, though they have improved a little. Christians are worse off in China, Catholic or Orthodox. So.…” He showed the palms of his hands.

“I feared so,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “Well, I did not suppose it would be possible, but I needed to speak with you, in case. And it was an excellent excuse for a walk through this part of the city…and to have gelato.”

* * *

Vitale, Cardinal Cadini was dressed very much as the other professors were: dark slacks, neat polo-style shirt in pale blue, a conservative dark blazer, and dark shoes. He had left his Cardinal’s lapel pins back at the Vatican.

The man facing him was handsome and fit; he wore an expensive, flashier version of the outfit Cardinal Cadini had on. He was officially on the faculty at Stanford, but he had been in Rome for three years, and before that he had spent two years in China. By birth he was Hungarian, by citizenship, American. He was one of the world’s foremost experts on authenticating European antiquities. His office was crowded with books, and he had to move a stack of them from one of the two visitors’ chairs to give Cardinal Cadini a place to sit.

“So, Cardinal Cadini,” said the man who now called himself Martin Bell. “This is an—”

“An unexpected pleasure?” the old Cardinal asked with mischief in his bright little eyes, which he now opened very wide, giving him the look of a sagacious baby.

“Something like that. With your current debates, I would have thought you’d have no time for academics.” He smiled easily as if he were facing an undergraduate in California instead of a Cardinal in Rome.

“I do have a doctorate,” said Cardinal Cadini with equal ease. “It’s a trifle rusty, but it looks well on my wall.”

Bell’s curiosity had risen higher than when the Cardinal’s office had called to ask for this appointment. “In anthropology, if memory serves. You placed high in your class, as I recall reading.”

“Fourth,” said Cardinal Cadini.

“Impressive,” said Bell, waiting for the reason for this visit.

Cardinal Cadini gave him the full weight of his smile: it was a smile that had melted the hearts of Communists and Arab leaders as well as Europeans and American—North and South—politicians. “I was hoping you might be willing to help us out. We’re having a problem locating someone. I thought you would have contacts in the People’s Republic of China—”

“The PRC?” Bell asked, startled by the question, though he recovered quickly. “I suppose I might have—I can reach faculty in most universities.”

“And what about…oh, ordinary people?” Cardinal Cadini asked.

Bell shrugged eloquently. “Possibly, if they are living near one of the sites I have visited, or something along those lines. I have friends in Beijing who are more current in their—”

“This person lives in Szechwan Province, or so we believe.” Cardinal Cadini said it as if he were asking for nothing more unusual than the address of an associate.

“Szechwan Province,” Martin Bell repeated, so nonplused that he could think of nothing else to say.

“The name of the town nearest is Hongya.”

“A missing priest?” Bell asked, regaining his sense of control. “Why would the conclave adjourn for a missing priest?”

“This is not a missing priest,” said Cardinal Cadini promptly. “Aside from the location and the name, we know nothing about this man. But it appears that he may have information we need.” It was the most he was willing to reveal, and he spoke hesitantly, his eyes directly on Bell. “I will be pleased to explain it all to you once this person is located and we have learned…what we need to know.”

“Well.” Martin Bell sat back, his face almost blank. “I don’t know what to say, Eminence.” He pursed his mouth as he considered. “Really, I don’t know.”

“Can you help us?” Cardinal Cadini asked with another display of his engaging smile.

Bell pondered, heavier lines settling into his face. “I don’t know. I doubt it. I wish it weren’t the case, but.… If the politics there were more settled, I might be able to find a way, but just at present, with Zuo only now coming into power, no one knows what to expect.”

“Of course,” said Cardinal Cadini. “Zuo Nangkao must be taken into account.”

“In six or eight months I’ll have a better idea how things are, and I may be in a position to assist you then.” He did his best to be encouraging but there was something in his eyes that warned Cardinal Cadini that Professor Bell wanted no part of this search. “If you have not located this man by then, come to me and I’ll do whatever I can for you.”

Cardinal Cadini had been serving the Church in diplomatic posts for too long not to recognize what Martin Bell was telling him. He got to his feet and sketched a blessing in Bell’s direction. “Thank you for all you have done already, my son. I will try not to compromise your work by making any more embarrassing requests of you.”

“Your Eminence,” Bell protested without conviction, “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Cardinal Cadini, his expression candid as a baby’s. “I am grateful to you for listening to me. I know I can depend on your confidence regarding our…missing person.”

Martin Bell was more distressed. “Please. As soon as six months have passed, I will be able to do something, I’m certain of it.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” said Cardinal Cadini as he left Professor Bell alone in his office.

* * *

From the window of his Milan office, Cyril Obata could see most of the city. At the moment he was watching the traffic jam building up between the train station and the Cathedral. He glanced at his watch and allowed his visitor five minutes’ leeway for his appointment. Ordinarily he demanded absolute promptness of those who claimed his valuable time—and at sixty he thought he was old enough to watch time closely—but with the mess on the street, he supposed that Dominique, Cardinal Hetre, would be late.

He was wrong: four minutes later Obata’s appointments secretary announced the arrival of the French-Canadian Prince of the Church, three minutes early.

Cyril Obata bowed as Cardinal Hetre entered the room. He was disappointed to see that the Cardinal had not worn his scarlet vestments. “Your Eminence.” He held out his hand just as Cardinal Hetre offered a slight bow.

In a black silk twill cassock piped in red, Cardinal Hetre was not as grand as Obata would have liked him to be, but no one could mistake him for a parish priest. He had been extending his hand so that Obata could kneel and kiss his ring, but turned the gesture so that he shook the Japanese-Canadian industrialist’s hand. “Thank you for seeing me, Mister Obata,” said the Cardinal in English.

“It is an honor to have you here,” Obata answered, his accent that of his native Ottawa. “What have we two Canadians to do here, Your Eminence?” He indicated the conversation area of his office, and the two matched sofas upholstered in pale leather. “Please. Let us be comfortable while we talk.”

“Thank you,” said Cardinal Hetre. He chose the sofa with the tall window behind him; he disliked heights, he had the start of a headache, and offices like this one made him queasy.

Obata saw his choice as a courtesy, a gesture that indicated their conversation was more important than anything going on beyond them. He took the other sofa and signaled for his personal assistant while he waited for Cardinal Hetre to speak.

“Both of us were born in Canada, and both so far away,” Cardinal Hetre began just as Obata’s personal assistant approached. “Do you miss it?”

“Canada?” Obata guessed correctly. “Sometimes, yes. But it was not an easy thing to be Japanese in Canada, not while I was a boy. I haven’t much nostalgia. And a man in my position cannot afford nostalgia, so it’s just as well. Italy is a beautiful place, Osaka is a beautiful place, Montevideo is a beautiful place, Amsterdam is a beautiful place, Perth is a beautiful place.…” He shrugged. “What may I do to serve you?”

Cardinal Hetre did not seem to hear the question. “But not like Canada. There is something remarkable about Canada.” He looked up suddenly, as if he had only just realized where he was. “Pardon me—what did you say?”

“I said,” Obata responded patiently, “that my assistant will bring you whatever you wish. We have coffees and teas from all over the world, the best wines, whatever you might wish to drink, and if you would like a meal, you may order whatever—”

“A Cotes Sauvages, eight years old at least, if you will, and strong coffee afterward,” said Cardinal Hetre, as if he were putting an unpleasant necessity behind him. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

Cyril Obata had been told that Cardinal Hetre could be an abrupt man, but he had not anticipated quite this degree of curtness. He said to his assistant, “A very good notion. I will have the same,” dismissing him with a wave when he was done.

Cardinal Hetre folded his long, knob-knuckled hands and stared at the ancient Balinese sculpture at the end of the sofa. “Primitive, but with some power.”

“It is the old storm god,” said Obata. “Obata-MacMillian have offices there, in Bali. We supply ships to the government of India from there, and for New Zealand as well.” He studied the Cardinal to see what response this information might bring.

“You have offices all over the world,” said Cardinal Hetre, making it an accusation.

“Yes. Our freighters are becoming the major design now.” He made no attempt to conceal his pride. “When we began, everyone said sailing ships could never compete with standard freighters, but”—he gestured to his office—“we are in thirty-four countries around the world and we have a two-year backlog on orders.” He beamed at Cardinal Hetre. Perhaps the Vatican was interested in shipping, or in financing a venture that required their ships.

“And you have offices in China—the People’s Republic of China?” This slip annoyed him and his face soured.

“We have ship-building facilities at Qingdao, a central office in Beijing, as required by law, with a repair center in Hong Kong.” He recited this as if the facts could not be learned elsewhere.

“Yes,” said Cardinal Hetre. “I suppose you employ many people?” He could feel his headache gathering at the back of his eyes; he resisted it, unwilling to have it ruin his interview with Obata.

“I could have the precise figures, if you require them, Your Eminence,” Obata offered gracefully.

Cardinal Hetre shook his head twice. “No. No, that’s all right,” he said. “I don’t think that would.…” He shifted his position so that he was facing Obata squarely. “It is a very awkward thing,” he confided at last.

“What is, Your Eminence?” asked Cyril Obata.

“This predicament.” He shook his head once more. “You see, it has become necessary for the Church to locate a man in China, and to do it without attempting the usual diplomatic rigmarole that often develops when the Church has to deal with countries…not affiliated to her. You know how the People’s Republic views the Vatican.” He put his hand to his forehead, then lowered it, staring at his fingers. “As we are both Canadians, I hoped you might be willing to provide us with a little discreet assistance, unofficially of course.”

Of the many things Cyril Obata had anticipated, this hedging request was not among them. “What do you need me to do?” he asked, thoroughly puzzled.

“We wish to find someone in the People’s Republic.” It was humiliating to admit it so baldly, and he hurried on to rid himself of the chagrin he felt. “It must be done in complete confidence. I have to impress on you the need for acting in such a way that your inquiries attract little or no attention, certainly no more than is required for us to accomplish our goal.” Cardinal Hetre was about to continue when the door opened and Obata’s personal assistant approached with a tray. He looked away from his host. “It is a rare occasion when the Church finds herself in this situation. We could not anticipate these developments, or establish our own direct contacts. You must understand.”

Obata’s personal assistant opened the wine and poured a sample for Cardinal Hetre, who approved it with the most cursory of tastes. “Mister Obata?” the young man asked when he had poured the wine and set down the heavy silver coffee service and Spode cups and saucers.

“That will be all, Winston. Thank you.” He paid no more attention to his assistant, preferring instead to concentrate on Cardinal Hetre. As the door closed he said, “Please continue, Your Eminence.”

“Is your assistant trustworthy?” Cardinal Hetre demanded, suddenly wary of what the young man might have overheard.

“He is my assistant and has been for four years. If he were not trustworthy, he would not be in my employ.” He was short with the Cardinal, although he knew it was rude, for he was outraged at the implication that he would have unreliable men working close to him.

“Of course, of course,” said Cardinal Hetre. “Well, I didn’t intend to give offence, Mister Obata. In the Church we have learned caution over the centuries, and the circumstances now are…unusual. The last weeks have been difficult, and the necessity to keep this confidential.…” He let his words fade to nothing. There was a hotness behind his eyes that made his headache worse.

“Why do you want to find this man in China?” Cyril Obata made his inquiry as to-the-point as possible.

“It…it has to do with the conclave and…the election of the next Pope.” He lifted his wineglass, noticing that the crystal was of the first quality. The shine of the glass was almost painful in its clarity. “To have so many changes so quickly—”

“Will finding this man make it easier for the Cardinals to select who the next Pope will be? Some crucial information is required by the College of Cardinals that this Chinese possesses? Is that what you’re implying?” Obata asked, more bewildered than ever that Cardinal Hetre should be speaking to him. “I doubt there’s much I can do, though I am naturally willing to help. Why do you need to see this man in China?”

“I wish I knew,” said Cardinal Hetre, his eyes bright with an emotion that was not quite shame.

Chapter 4

When the report came back to Jivin, Cardinal Tayibha, he heard it with a sinking heart. As soon as the priest in Nepal concluded giving his apologetic news, Cardinal Tayibha did his best to assuage the worst fears. “Father Hastin, you have done your work well. I am impressed with what you have been able to achieve in so little time. Few would have been as diligent as you have been. That you were not able to discover the identity of the man we seek in China is no cause for blame. Or for guilt. You have done more than anyone in the Church to discover who this man is, and you have done it with dispatch and without questioning the reason for the search.” Father Hastin, the Cardinal knew, had been a priest for little more than three years and was still caught up in the newness of his work, and in the need to prove his worth. “There was only the slimmest chance that you could have found the man. God asks the impossible of us only when He performs a miracle.”

“But there was no reason for me to fail,” said Father Hastin, his words all but lost in a burst of static.

“There was also no reason for you to succeed,” said Cardinal Tayibha. “You have my thanks and blessing and I will pray for you, as I hope you will do for me and for all the souls in God’s world.”

“Certainly,” said Father Hastin.

“Good,” whispered Cardinal Tayibha, and started the ritual phrases of farewell while he cudgeled his brain in an attempt to think of another way to locate the unknown Zhuang Renxin. As soon as he was off the telephone he left his apartments and went toward the chapel which had been set aside for his use, shared only with Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung; Tokuyu, Cardinal Tsukamara; Jaime, Cardinal O’Higgins; and Bruno, Cardinal Hauptberger. He found the chapel empty and was secretly gratified; much as they were each other’s exalted equals in the Church, they were also an Indian, a Swiss (conservative), a Japanese, a Mexican, and an Austrian (liberal), which was not always comfortable. As he knelt before the altar, he prayed for knowledge so that the importance of this man in Szechwan Province would become clear, for then he would have something other than disappointment to report to the rest that evening.

* * *

As he dialed the number, Willie Foot held his breath, as he always did using the Italian telephone system, although this time there was an added tension that had more than the idiosyncratic telephone to fuel it. Service was not quite so capricious on international calls as Italian ones, but he had had enough experience to be prepared for he worst. To his amazement, the call went through on the first try. He hoped that was a good omen. He shook his head once as he heard the rings nearly half-way around the world. Listening to the rings, counting them, he rehearsed again what he would say, for he was calling a private line, a personal line, not the more public exchange where the ambassadorial staff might be privy to the conversation. He did his best to pretend no one else would be listening to a private conversation between an Ambassador and a reporter.

At last the receiver was lifted in Hong Kong and a voice that never failed to stir him said, “Leonie Purcell.”

“Hello, Leonie,” said Willie, and held his breath.

There was a pause; then, “Hello, Willie,” she said. “Willie. Willie. What a…I didn’t think I’d hear from you…so soon.” By which he knew she meant ever again.

“This is business,” said Willie, doing his best to make the call wholly professional, and afraid—as he knew she was—that in spite of this precaution, there might be an eavesdropper who would hear more in their voices than information; it had happened before. “Listen, I know I have no right to ask, but I need a favor: I need you to find someone for me. Very hush-hush.”

Her short laughter was not entirely natural, but only those who knew her well would recognize that. “A newspaperman asking me to find someone? Isn’t that all rather backward? What is the occasion?”

“I’m following up on a hunch, that’s all,” said Willie, picturing the way the sun glinted on her hair, as if she were in Rome with him and not in Hong Kong. “I’ve heard about a man in Szechwan Province who is said to have some information that might be useful to some inquisitive clergymen. Sometimes a story like this can lead to bigger things.” He had not told Cardinal Mendosa he was going to call Leonie Purcell when his other contacts were unable to help. He suspected the Cardinal would not approve. He also realized that the request was little more than an excuse to talk to Leonie.

“Chasing the scent, are you?” Leonie inquired with a little sharpness.

“Well, what else am I do to, Madame Ambassadress?” He had not meant to challenge her that way, but the question came out before he could stop it. “I’ve been a journalist for a quarter of a century. It’s what I know how to do.” There were other things he wanted to say to her, but not when his words were being bounced from satellite to satellite with who-knows-whom listening.

“And you do it well,” said Leonie, falling into the same tone. “I will admit that your hunches have turned out occasionally. All right; who is this person you think might have information?”

“I’ll fax you the information on your machine. Within the hour.” He did not like the fax machine much better than he liked the telephone, but he had more security devices on it to warn him if his signals were being received by anyone other than the person for whom they were intended, or so the manufacturers promised. “Make note of the region—Szechwan Province, near the city of Hongya—and if there is any way for you to discover this chap, let me know at once.”

She did not speak for a couple of seconds, which seemed to Willie to be years. “And what will you do in return?” It was as palpable as a gauntlet flung at his feet.

Willie sighed and raised his eyes toward the ceiling, astonished. He had not anticipated she would want to resume their affair. “You’re right. I’m…obliged to you. May seventh and eighth, without bells on, for a movie of your choice.” He told himself it was an innocuous reply, but was unable to be convinced, for to him their code seemed clumsy and obvious.

If Leonie shared his apprehension, she concealed it well. “Victoria Station, tea time. I’ll confirm in two weeks and we’ll go on from there.”

“All right,” said Willie, committing himself to meet her in Hawaii in seven weeks—if possible—to spend a week alone with her.

“Excellent. I’ll look forward to it.” So far she had maintained her brisk, efficient manner, but now she faltered, as if she might want to say something more. When she did, it was not what he expected. “When you send the fax, make sure the register is good.”

“Be glad to,” said Willie, amazed that she would caution him against spies at his end, here in Rome. “Let me know if there’s any problem when it arrives,” he added, giving her the warning for her end as well. He wanted to continue talking with her, to keep her on the phone for the pleasure of hearing her voice. Instead, he made himself say, “Well, until May, then. Thank you very much, Leonie. I’ll try to arrange for premiere tickets.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said softly. “I do love premieres.”

Which, Willie Foot thought as he put down the receiver, is how you say I love you when you’re resuming an affair with a married noblewoman, and an Ambassador to boot. He looked out his tall windows, seeing the gaudy enormity of Rome, wishing only for a little more time with Leonie Purcell. “You’re forty-seven years old, chum,” he said to himself. “You ought to know better than this.” Then he went into the larger of two bedrooms which served as his office, searched through the chaos of papers on his desk, and started up his fax machine.

* * *

Cardinal Cadini summoned up all his world-class charm to thank Martin Bell for his assistance. “I am sure you have done more than anyone expected, or had the right to expect. If it weren’t essential to preserve our—the Church’s—confidentiality , I would never have asked you to attempt so incredible a.… The task was next to impossible when it was set and I know it may take a long time to locate this man, assuming he is still alive and our information about him accurate.” He would not let his voice sound disheartened, though he was deeply concerned.

On the other end of the line Bell said, “If you want to try again?”

“No, thank you,” said Cardinal Cadini with real warmth. “You need not. We will have to try more obvious methods, I fear. But I deeply appreciate everything you have done. I am in your debt, Martin, and you may come to me if I can be of assistance to you in the future.” He knew his gesture was greater than necessary but he had a truly generous nature.

“Your Eminence,” said Martin Bell, now so curious he could hardly bear it. He made a number of notes to himself as he took polite leave of the old Cardinal, promising himself that he would get to the bottom of these inquiries. If Cardinal Cadini would not tell him what was going on, he would have to find out on his own.

As Cardinal Cadini left his apartments, he paused to speak with Cardinal van Hooven. “Any news from your front?” he asked in English.

“I fear not,” said the little Dutchman. “I am beginning to think that there will not be. That is a worrisome conclusion.”

“We mustn’t abandon our work. Zhuang Renxin has been elected twice; we must find him or have no true Pope,” said Cardinal Cadini with heat. “What about the others? We know that Cardinal Tayibha hasn’t been able to bring us the information we want. Has Cardinal Hetre made any progress that you know of?”

“Not yet. Our time is getting very short, I fear,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “It would be lamentable if we had to attempt direct channels and were thwarted.”

“Yes, it would,” said Cardinal Cadini, nodding to Raoul, Cardinal Ochoa from Asuncion. “But we may have to set aside our sovereignty and resort to it.”

They turned the corner and started down a Baroque staircase. “I am saddened to think that the Church has to regard candor as undesirable.” Cardinal van Hooven hunched up his shoulders as if he were cold, though the ambulatory was quite warm, and he leaned heavily on the bannister, moving slowly. On the floor below there were thirty of so of their fellow-Princes of the Church.

“Very true,” said Cardinal Cadini agreed. “Occasionally I think it was wise of the Americans not to mix Church and State. We are both Church and State, and in this instance, it makes for—” He raised his hands in a display of aggravation.

“It certainly does,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “Is there anyone willing to speak to Premier Zuo? Do you think it might be wise to ask for the assistance of the United Nations? It could make our predicament a little less delicate if we could approach it through U.N. channels. What a pity that Gunnar Hvolsvollur is a Lutheran and not a Catholic. He might be willing to deal for us directly.”

“Surely one of the Catholic diplomats at the U.N. would do as well as the Secretary-General,” said Cardinal Cadini with more hope than certainty. They were almost to the lower floor now, and one or two of the Cardinals gathered there seemed eager to speak with them.

“Not in Zuo Nangkao’s eyes, I suspect,” said Cardinal van Hooven as they reached the foot of the staircase. “In any event, we must resume the conclave in two weeks.” He stood quite still for a short while. “Do you think Jung is mad enough to make us go through the whole farce again? He is trying to drive us to a hasty conclusion.”

“Yes; and there are those who are saying that we are possessed of devils, and it is not the Holy Spirit but Satan who guides our deliberations. They claim that we are dupes of Hell.” Cardinal Cadini shook his head, and for once looked like nothing so much as a worn out old merchant, his liveliness and spontaneity having deserted him briefly. “Protestant nonsense and Catholic heresy, but I fear we will have to contend with it eventually. I have been asked very impertinent questions by the press, and I know there will be more.”

“Especially if we find Zhuang Renxin,” said Cardinal van Hooven.

Cardinal Cadini’s smile returned. “So I suppose we will have to repose our trust in God.”

Cardinal van Hooven crossed himself.

* * *

As the shots rang in his dream, Cardinal Mendosa came awake with a strangled shout of protest. He thrashed twice against his bedding as if attempting to break restraints, and then he gave a short, shuddering sigh as he came back to himself.

Sweating, his breathing fast and his pulse banging at his temples, he tried to lie back. A dream, a dream, he repeated to himself. Most Holy God, it had been dreadful. Not again tonight, he vowed. Not if I have to stare at the ceiling counting cracks until daylight. He could not stand to see it again. He knew it was folly to close his eyes, and when he did he saw once more the profile of the Asian Pope with head and face obliterated by bullets as he himself lunged a second too late to knock the Pontiff out of the line of fire. He stared straight up, trying to block the image from his mind, at the same time puzzling over the dream: was it that he feared the Chinese Pope would not be acceptable to Catholics, and that the Papacy itself would be destroyed? It seemed a possible metaphor, for he had never in any dream yet caught sight of the face of the Asian Pope; which bothered him, for in his previous experiences he had seen everything all too clearly. Surely it could not be a vision, for how could a Pope be assassinated in the middle of Saint Peter’s Basilica? That was the most inconceivable of all.

He pummeled his pillow into a wedge and propped it under his shoulders, hoping that this would help keep him awake. His head felt swollen and he was not quite at home in his body. He wondered if he ought to get up and pray, but settled for reciting the familiar words of Psalm 104: “Bless the Lord, O my soul! O Lord, my God, You are great indeed! You are clothed with majesty and glory, robed in light as with a cloak. You have spread out the heavens like a tent-cloth. You have constructed Your palace upon the waters. You make the clouds Your chariot; you travel on the wings of the wind. You make the winds Your messengers, and flaming fire Your ministers.…” It was incorrect to pray this way, according to Church dogma. But did it matter to God if he was lying down or kneeling? Did God know the difference? Or care? Questions like that had got him into trouble with the nuns when he was a boy, and he suspected he might still raise some eyebrows in the Curia.

A bell sounded and Cardinal Mendosa decided it was Matins, the old Vigil hour which through history was moved gradually from midnight to dawn to midmorning. Matins and Lauds, he remembered, one named for the hour, the other from the opening of the Psalm.

The Pope’s hair was black and long enough to be caught at the back of the neck.

Cardinal Mendosa deliberately bit the inside of his cheek to keep from drifting back into sleep. Who, in the name of every Saint, Power, Throne, Dominion, Seraph, Cherub, Angel, Archangel, and demon in Hell, was that elusive Chinese? Why had they not been able to find him? And if they found him, he went on with the more sensible part of his mind, what then? What to do next? Would Premier Zuo consent to having one of his people become Pope of the Roman Catholic Church, an institution whose existence the People’s Republic found so objectionable they refused to recognize its diplomatic existence? And the rest of the public-relations-conscious world, what would it make of a Pope taken from rural China? There had already been great resistance to the Church: would this foreigner not cause more open conflict and defection, not only by the laity but the clergy as well?

With a resigned sigh Cardinal Mendosa got out of bed and made his way to the prie-dieu. Two of the three candles he had lit were still burning, and as he knelt the second winked out.

“An omen?” Cardinal Mendosa asked the darkness. “Or a breeze?” He crossed himself and began to pray.

* * *

“Sadly, we must be very careful,” said Cyril Obata as he closed the door and pressed the lock home. The stretch limousine belonged to Obata-MacMillian, and it boasted not only a telephone-with-fax, television and CD stereo, but also a vibrating unit on the wide rear seat. Leather upholstery and damask accessories made the automobile luxurious. The windows were tinted and bullet-proof and the chauffeur was skilled in pursuit driving and the use of light arms.

Although it was late, traffic along the Corso Vittorio Emanuele II was heavy; a filmcrew had staked out the Piazza del Campidoglio and the spill-over made for slow going.

“What is the film about?” asked Cyril Obata as he offered his tight-lipped passenger some superior champagne.

“I don’t know,” snapped Cardinal Hetre. “I’ve heard it was another of those ludicrous spy stories. The actors are Italian and English.” He dismissed the whole thing with a click of his tongue.

“They must be well-financed, to be able to do this,” Obata observed, in no hurry to get to the reason for their meeting.

“So I hear,” said Cardinal Hetre.

Obata drank a little of his fine champagne but it did nothing to disperse the sense of gloom that had taken him over. “I had hoped to give you better news,” he said at last. “I regret that I cannot.”

Cardinal Hetre looked at him, his lean face appearing almost skull-like in the subdued shine of the interior lamps. “What is it?”

“We have made inquiries,” said Obata slowly. “I cannot do more without abandoning the confidentiality you insist upon. Under the circumstances, I can offer nothing but my apologies.” He indicated the champagne flute. “May I fill that for you?”

Absently Cardinal Hetre held out his glass, though his eyes were supremely blank. “Nothing?”

“About China?” Obata ventured. “No, I am very sorry,” he said as he poured. “We have few contacts in the inner parts of the country, you understand. They buy few sailing ships in the Tibetan foothills.” His feeble attempt at humor made both men more gloomy. “From what we have been able to discover, the town of Hongya does not depend on water for the greater part of its shipping. I’ve asked our various agents who might have relatives in Szechwan Province, thinking there might be some connection that would enable us to learn more.…” He lifted his glass. “Zhuang Renxin.”

“We do not yet know who he is.” Cardinal Hetre tasted the sparkling wine. “Very good,” he approved in a distracted tone.

“Thank you,” said Cyril Obata, taking consolation in the knowledge that he had done something to please the dour Canadian. “If you do not get information from your other sources, speak to me again, and it might be possible to hire someone in China to do the work for you.”

“If it comes to that, we’ll probably resort to diplomatic channels.” said Cardinal Hetre. “You know why we would rather not do so.”

“I have some notion, yes,” said Obata.

The limousine stopped once more and Cardinal Hetre scowled. “I suppose we have to wait.”

“So it would appear,” Obata agreed.

* * *

“Well?” asked Alexander, Cardinal Bradeston as he at last found Charles, Cardinal Mendosa in the Cortile del Belvedere. The gardens were not crowded, though several small groups made their way around the grounds, a few with guides, many in clerical garb; in secular dress Cardinal Mendosa blended with the visitors and drew no attention to himself.

“Well what?” Cardinal Mendosa countered.

“Oh, come on, Charles,” said Cardinal Bradeston, who was in a more standard cassock, and so was also as unnoticeable as Cardinal Mendosa. “Any news? Has your contact got anything?”

“I’ve got an appointment to talk with him tomorrow. I’ll let you know as soon as I get back.” He glanced at the Bostonian’s face. “Another washout?”

Cardinal Bradeston peered at a group of German seminarians, shaking his head. “Nothing from Moscow.”

“Aw, shit,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Van Hooven had real hopes for the Metropolitan. That’s all of them but mine, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Cardinal Bradeston. “And Jung is getting restive. He wants to reconvene the conclave day after tomorrow, no more delays. We can’t manage that, not with fifteen of us still unavailable until next week, as we arranged originally. I hope that mess in Honduras doesn’t get any worse between then and now.”

“Well, we can’t oblige Jung, so he’ll have to learn to live with it. Any word from the mission?” Cardinal Mendosa asked, momentarily distracted from his search for Zhuang Renxin.

“Not today; it’s early there,” said Cardinal Bradeston. “I wish they wouldn’t confuse the guerilla war with the priests who put snakes around the statues of the Virgin.” He smoothed back his thinning grey hair. “I don’t like the snakes, but they’re not revolutionary statements, just heretical ones.”

“No, they’re Voodoo,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Much different. Mind you, it could be just as dangerous in the long run. No matter what, it’s irresponsible to send four Cardinals and a Papal Nuncio off to check it out at a time like this. I know it’s supposed to make it look like we’re doing our best to be socially responsible, especially to third world Catholics, but this—”

“It keeps us from having the conclave,” Cardinal Bradeston pointed out. “Think about that, Charles, and give thanks for it. Cardinal Jung can’t dispute it.”

“All right, I’m thankful,” said Charles Mendosa. “I’m also getting damn worried.”

“You’re certainly going in for expletives today,” said Cardinal Bradeston.

“You telling me they’re not appropriate?” Cardinal Mendosa asked in his broadest Texas drawl.

“No,” his Bostonian counterpart allowed. “But it isn’t good form and you’d better confess it.” He found a bench and sat on it. “We don’t have much time. That’s what troubles me the most, that we’ll run out of time—”

“And we’ll be stampeded into making the same mistake again,” said Cardinal Mendosa for him. “Yep. It’s been on my mind, too. And suppose we do end up having another election? What happens when that guy drops dead in a week or two or three? There are those who say the Church is dead already; they keep talking about those damn…blasted picture frames and the prophecy about them. If we keep doing Pope-of-the-Month, it’ll only serve to make those myth-mongers more credible, and we don’t need any more of that than we already have, even in our own ranks.”

“Right you are,” said Cardinal Bradeston, his face somber but his eyes glinting with humor. “Charles, no wonder Jung would like to strangle you with your intestines.”

Cardinal Mendosa gave an impish smile. “Figures, doesn’t it? He’d like to fry me up like a hornytoad on a griddle.”

“That’s appalling,” said Cardinal Bradeston as he tried to suppress a chuckle. “You Texans use the most peculiar metaphors.”

“Specially for the hornytoad, it’s appalling,” Cardinal Mendosa said with a wink. “And that was a simile.”

The answering smile was brief. “Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung has ideas. When he says Pope, he is speaking about himself.” Cardinal Bradeston was quiet as they both considered that unwelcome possibility. “Do you think your investigator has a chance of finding Zhuang Renxin?”

“Naturally, or I wouldn’t have asked him.” He put the tips of his fingers together. “He’s a good man, sensible and down-to-earth. And he knows I won’t forget what he’s done. That makes it worth his while to be tenacious. And I think he’s getting curious.”

“You mean you struck a deal with him?” Cardinal Bradeston wanted to be outraged but was more amused.

“Indirectly. Why not? Where’s the error in it? The Church has done it time out of mind, so why not this one Cardinal?” Cardinal Mendosa asked. “It isn’t going to imperil his soul or mine, so where’s the harm in a little quid-pro-quo? It would be wrong of me to ask so much and offer nothing back.”

“But doing a deal…Charles.” Cardinal Bradeston got slowly to his feet. “Well, let me know as soon as you talk to your source. And I pray with all my heart you have something for us.”

“So do I, Alex,” said Cardinal Mendosa.

* * *

A small but determined squall had blown in from the Philippines, turning what would have been time set aside for tea on the veranda to a restless couple of hours wandering around the Residence. Dame Leonie Purcell was trying to think what to do with herself before changing for cocktails—she had correspondence to answer and an article to write but neither sparked her interest—when a visitor called.

“Who is it?” she asked the butler as he stood just inside the library door.

“Mister Liang Zempo,” he answered.

“Liang? Already?” Leonie looked around the loving disorder of the shelves. “This ought to do. Have the kitchen send up a proper British tea, Hastings. Liang may be a loyal citizen of the People’s Republic, but he’s mad about clotted cream and scones.” As the butler withdrew, she straightened her skirt and felt her hair, nervous habits she had had since she was girl. She decided to take the high-backed grandmother chair by the fireplace and had just settled into it when the butler admitted Liang Zempo. “How very good to see you again,” she said as they finished their exchange of greetings. “I was afraid that you would not be back so quickly.” Her Chinese was faultless but her visitor preferred to speak in English.

“Yes. I assumed it would be harder than it was.” He sat down. “I am told the storm will pass by midnight.”

“I have heard the same,” said Leonie, aware that Liang would tell her very little beyond social pleasantries until tea had been served. She was willing to talk about sports and travel with Liang, though she was anxious to know what—if anything—he had discovered for her.

At last Hastings brought the tray, complete with a silver bud vase with a single rose. “Is there anything else, Ma’am?” he asked when he had put the tray down.

“No, thank you, Hastings.” She watched as he turned and left the room. Was he the one assigned to watch her and report to British Intelligence Bureau she wondered, as she had for half a year. Someone in the embassy was, and she was fairly certain it had to be Hastings or Sanderson. On the whole, she preferred the BIB man be Sanderson, her social secretary, instead of her butler.

“What is it, Dame Leonie?” asked Liang. “You seem.…” He ended with a slight toss of his head.

She made herself pay attention. “It’s nothing. The storm irritates me. I’m sure you know the feeling.”

“Oh, yes,” said Liang. “It is hard for those who have bursitis as well.” He patted his legs. “At my age, the bones complain.” He reached out for the cup of tea she had poured him. “Ah, just as I like it, with milk and sugar. And scones! I’ve missed scones at teatime.”

“Have all you want. There are more in the kitchen if these aren’t sufficient.” She had her tea straight and her crumpet with blueberry compote. “Are you going to tell me, or must I guess?” she asked when he had made his way through his first cream-heaped scone.

“Oh, I will tell you,” said Liang, his eyes shining with amusement. “I have been looking forward to telling you all about Zhuang Renxin.”

Leonie felt a pleasant twinge of satisfaction. “Do you mean you’ve actually located—”

“Zhuang Renxin of near-Hongya? Most assuredly. Yes, most assuredly.” He chuckled more and helped himself to a second scone.

By the time Liang had finished and left, Leonie had several pages of notes; she read through them before placing her call. She let the phone ring a long time. It was late afternoon in Hong Kong, making it late night in Rome. When she was about to hang up, Willie Foot answered.

“This better be important,” he muttered, half-awake.

“Oh, it is, Willie,” said Leonie, relishing the startled gasp on the other end of the line. “Your fax said to call you as soon as I had information. I have just seen my contact on his way.”

“Oh, God,” said Willie, sounding more awake. “You mean you actually did it?”

“Well, no, I didn’t; but my associate Liang Zempo did. He comes from Szechwan Province originally, and he was about to go to Hongya and ask questions.” She started to laugh outright. “Your curious clergymen might be in for a bit of a surprise, though.”

In Rome Willie stopped scribbling on the small pad of paper he kept in his nightstand. “What do you mean?”

“Well, there is a Zhuang Renxin living just outside Hongya; that much is right. She—that’s s-h-e—is in her early forties, a widow, and some kind of legal authority in the region.” Her voice was triumphant.

“A forty-year-old widow? Widow?” Willie asked, his mind abuzz with what this could mean to the Cardinals. “Well, what hath God wrought?” he asked in a miserable attempt at a joke.

Leonie came close to laughing again. “I don’t know: you tell me.”

“A widow,” said Willie, in case he had been mistaken.

“A widow,” Leonie confirmed.

Chapter 5

Fourteen Cardinals sat together in a corner of the diplomats’ lounge adjoining Saint Peter’s. Each of them stared at Charles, Cardinal Mendosa. Nine of them could not believe they had heard right.

“A Chinese widow?” Cardinal Gemme asked. “There isn’t some mistake? Mightn’t that be her son’s name? Or another…relative?”

“No children, according to the report. And no living male relatives with a personal name like Renxin. It was male relatives you’re asking about, isn’t it?” said Cardinal Mendosa, reading the page he held though he had memorized the information there.

“But a widow,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “It is…difficult enough that this Zhuang is a woman, but a widow.…” His pale, magnified eyes were bleary. “It was bad before. This is very…awkward.”

Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme gazed at the enormous Bernini sculpture on the other side of the room. “Does Jung know? Do any of the other reactionaries? Or those who aren’t…affiliated?”

“Not yet; not that I know of,” Cardinal Mendosa said very carefully. “You’re the first. I haven’t said anything outside of the College. I used none of my Vatican staff on this, so they have no means to let the information out. But there’s no telling what they might have learned on their own.”

“Do you mean you do not trust your source?” asked Dominique, Cardinal Hetre. He sounded as if he had a cold; he was almost visibly trembling and his face was pasty. “A woman. A widow. Dear God! We can’t do it.”

Vitale, Cardinal Cadini leaned back. “The Church has said that often, about many things, and nearly as often eventually relented. We have already elected Zhuang Renxin twice. We can elect her again, if you like.” His little eyes brightened with ill-concealed delight. “I was beginning to fear that we would enter the Third Millennium bound in brass and tradition with nothing to capture the faith and imagination of the world. You see, my own faith was too weak. The only way the millennium would be uneventful is if God had forsaken us.”

“It may all be a moot point,” said Vincent, Cardinal Walgren of Los Angeles, who had a Master’s in Social Anthropology, a cult-like following of former youth gang members, and a drinking problem. “We still have the Chinese themselves to deal with, and they might not want her to be Pope any more than most of us do.”

“Speak for yourself, Vince,” said Cardinal Mendosa.

Cardinal Walgren paid no attention to Cardinal Mendosa. “What about our intelligence service? Why not leave it all to them?”

“We’re officially in conclave, you idiot,” snarled Cardinal Hetre. His aggravation was almost as infuriating as the headache that held him in an unrelenting grip. “We’re compromised enough as it is. We’ll do better to abandon the whole thing. If we bring intelligence into this, we’ll be completely without credibility, no matter what the Chinese government agrees to.”

“It’s not our concern,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “The Holy Spirit summons her, Eminences, not us. There will be a way.”

“Will there?” demanded Cardinal Hetre. “You’re a psychiatrist, van Hooven, and you know better than that. This is a Chinese widow we’re discussing, not an obscure Archbishop. Do you seriously believe the world will accept this woman as Pope?” His voice rose with each word.

“Not if you are any indication of the state of the world,” said Cardinal Cadini with a beatific smile. “But isn’t that the purpose of testing faith? And must not faith be tested to be genuine faith? Any man sitting with a full belly and a VCR can believe, and be easy in his belief. But take away the food and the amusement, and what then? What happened when Rome had no more bread and circuses? What did men do then? And what will they do now? Do we test the faith of our contented man with the VCR by letting him watch on his VCR all the wars and atrocities waged in the name of God: let him see the current events in Ecuador and Brazil, to see what human beings are capable of doing to one another. Then we might ask if anyone can still believe implicitly in the Infinite Mercy of God.” He slid back in his chair the better to look at the elaborate Baroque painting on the ceiling.

“This doesn’t help us, Eminence,” said Felipe, Cardinal Pingari; his attitude was respectful but the tone of his voice was critical.

“Probably not,” said Cardinal Cadini amiably. “But this is not the first difficulty the Church has faced, and it will not be the last.” He continued to look upward. “Our faith is being tested now. The Holy Spirit will let us repeat our ridiculous election of another Cardinal and we will have to bear the sin of that man’s death. It will all happen again, until we bend to the Will of God. Which is what we’re supposed to be doing in the first place.” He beamed. “Let us have this Chinese widow at once, and get it over with. Why prolong the agony, or add to our pride? Jump into the waves where they are breaking, not just amble along the shore where the ocean cannot touch us.”

“You can take the first press conference,” said Cardinal Gemme, for once not eager to claim that privilege for himself

“We’ve been over most of this already,” muttered Cardinal Mendosa, more to himself than to the others. He looked at the men in the room who were silent, wishing he could read their thoughts. He hesitated, annoyed at the obduracy of the rest, then said, “You’re being a tad previous, Eminence. We haven’t found the woman yet; we have no direct dealings with her. For all we know, she would not want to be head of the Church, supposing the government allowed it.”

“She’s probably a Communist,” whispered Cardinal Hetre, his eyes appearing more sunken than before. “Our intelligence must determine that, no matter what the outcome. We have to know where her commitment lies. A Communist at Saint Peter’s!”

“She’d fit right in with the early Christians,” said Cardinal Gemme. “To all intents, so were they.” He nodded toward Andreas, Cardinal Llanos of Managua. “So are many of your priests, aren’t they?”

“I don’t think the Holy Spirit is very concerned with our political disagreements,” said Cardinal van Hooven at his blandest, his eyes appearing huge. “I think the Holy Spirit is concerned for the salvation of our souls.” No one paid any attention.

“I don’t mean that kind of Communist, and you know it; I mean the kind who represents the antithesis of our society and religion,” Cardinal Hetre protested, and gained the support of Cardinals Pingari and Tsukamara. “We have to think of our position in the world, our effectiveness. What widow from China could possibly understand how to administer the Church?”

“Perhaps the Holy Spirit isn’t concerned with administration,” said Cardinal Cadini with a tactful cough for emphasis, and a nod toward Cardinal van Hooven. “Let the Curia see to the administration—it has done so right along.”

“And what of the Chinese?” asked Ectore, Cardinal Fiorivi. “We have no reason to hope that they will want to assist us in our work here. And we have already admitted—have we not?—it would be inappropriate to use our intelligence service in this instance: had we done that, the woman would have been identified and located within forty-eight hours. But we have chosen another way. Therefore we must resort to diplomacy in our approach to the Chinese; they might not want this woman to leave China and come to us. We will have to do this very delicately. Very delicately,” he repeated as he steepled his long white fingers and pressed the tallest to his thin red lips.

“We’ll have to discuss this more thoroughly,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Our preliminary assumptions are—”

“And think about the Protestants extremists, the conservatives and the radicals. They say we’re the unwitting servants of the Devil, or that we’re ludicrous in the modern world,” protested Cardinal Belleau. “I shudder at what they will make of this latest news. The Resurrectionist Baptists have been declaring that the deaths of Celestine and Urban were Acts of God, proof that we no longer heed the Holy Spirit. A popular television minister announced that God was picking us off one by one. The Unitarians said that we’re no longer a Church but a State, not guided by spiritual values but the demands of power and politics. If we let it be known now that we have elected a Pope who is not a Cardinal, is not even a priest, is not—in fact—a Catholic, is not Occidental, and is not male, they will mock us and turn against us, every one of them.”

Jaime, Cardinal O’Higgins held out his hand to quell the rising ire. “We have an obligation to God, no matter how upsetting it is to the public. We are His servants and the keepers of His Church. If we fail in that, we will truly be the servants of the Devil and the tools of politicians, and it will be right that we lose our faithful.” He saw wariness in some eyes. “In Mexico, the Church is often beleaguered, but we win through when we serve the truth. I have always admonished my priests to speak the truth, for truth is the Glory of God. The Church has reason to be ashamed of what she has done to Mexico: if we deny it, we fail; if we confess it and strive to make amends, then we succeed, just as we teach our congregations to do. This is much the same: if we compromise what is the Will of God, then it does not matter that we keep our flocks together, for we will then be wolves and the sheep will be lost.” He looked over at Hunfredo, Cardinal Montebranco. “Don’t you agree?”

“No,” said Cardinal Montebranco. “I find the entire notion of this Pope repugnant, and if matters were different, if we had not elected her twice, I would oppose the whole notion to my last breath. I am convinced that our tragic loss of Urban and Celestine has worked completely to our disadvantage, and if we had more time, we might avoid this entire embarrassment. But in this instance we have now gone too far; our hands are tied. If we have another death—and I believe we cannot run the risk of that happening—it will be said that all the deaths have been assassinations, and no matter whom we elect, we will have ended our credibility.” He cleared his throat to gain more attention. “Have you all ignored those rumors? Do you pretend you have not heard them? Have you forgot what is being said about Urban and Celestine? Don’t you think that those questions can harm us—have harmed us already? Do you think the world does not pay them heed?”

“Tabloid nonsense,” said Cardinal Hetre. “From the same people who claim that Michael Jackson’s disappearance was due to extra-terrestrials, and that Chaney Groton didn’t kill all those women buried in his basement, that he was covering up for his crippled brother. It is the same mentality as that of those who are saying they will have to wear white robes and stand on the peaks of mountains on the First of January in the year two thousand because they don’t know that the Third Millennium begins the year later. We need not bother ourselves about what they say.”

“Let another Pope die and more than tabloids will claim murder,” Cardinal Montebranco warned.

“We have autopsy reports. We have made them public from the first,” protested Cardinal Bradeston. “We’ve bent over backwards to be open and fair and above-board.”

“Autopsies or no autopsies,” Cardinal Fiorivi added in his measured way, “it will be assumed that we have somehow ‘fixed’ the report, and that the results released to the media are not accurate. The Church is still powerful enough to do that, isn’t it? And sadly we have a history that supports suspicion. Undoubtedly there are those who see our very openness as a new form of treachery, a trap. We paid no notice to that book about Urban’s death, but I have been told that there are three to be published about Celestine’s death. We will be deluged by the press if another Pope dies.”

“You know, we’ve been going round and round about the next Pope for months. It really started when Urban died.” Cardinal Mendosa was on his feet and started to pace, his long rolling stride and black cowboy boots more suited to a rodeo than the Vatican. “We might as well face it: we got a Chinese woman out there and God wants her to be Pope. Remember, she’s been elected twice. We don’t know why God wants her, and we aren’t going to know why unless we let her do the job God’s given her. Let’s stop haggling about that, okay?”

The Bostonian Cardinal Bradeston made a gesture of resignation. “Are you planning to hog-tie us all until we accept that?”

“Don’t think I couldn’t,” Cardinal Mendosa said lightly. “What we’ve got to do now is find the woman and bring her back here. Hell, gentlemen, if the Tibetans can find the Dalai Lama in little kids, we ought to be able to find Zhuang Renxin and have a talk with her. My source has already located her, so it’s not impossible to get to her.” He came to a halt and rocked back on his heels. “If my source can do this, it’s only a matter of time before someone else will, too.”

“Are you volunteering to find her, Eminence?” Cardinal Cadini asked, his smile back on full.

“Sure,” said Cardinal Mendosa, so relieved that he wished he was sitting down. “Sure. I’ll do it.”

Cardinal Gemme shook his head. “How? She’s a peasant woman in central China. How will you reach her? What makes you think you’ll be allowed to talk with her at all?”

Images from his dream came back to him so intensely that he blinked. It never occurred to him that meeting Zhuang Renxin would be a problem; his vision had warned of no difficulty. “You mean, being a Cardinal and an American might work against me?” His manner was very serious though he favored Cardinal Gemme with a wide Texas grin. “We got this far, I figure we’ll get the rest of the way.”

* * *

Martin Bell had been expecting a scrambled call for most of the evening; now that it was approaching midnight, he decided that it was almost time to go home. The call from Moscow would come the next morning, he hoped. As he drew on his neat camel-hair blazer, he was startled to hear the telephone ring.

“Bell here,” he said as he lifted the receiver.

“Good evening, Martin, this is Dmitri,” said his caller, making no attempt to disguise his identity. His voice was silky and his manner impeccable. They spoke in English. “I hope you have some reasonable explanation for why you asked me to locate this Chinese peasant. Do you?”

Martin laughed, but not easily enough to conceal his nervousness. “A Chinese peasant—is that who the name is? I hope I do, too.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “Several days ago Cardinal Cadini came to me to ask me to help him locate this person. I tried my usual academic contacts and learned nothing, and then Cardinal Cadini said I need not bother. Which is why I contacted you. Whoever this person is, Cardinal Cadini wants to find him, and he does not want to use the Vatican intelligence service. That makes the Chinese peasant interesting, don’t you think?”

There was a slight hesitation. “You do not know why they are seeking her? You have not discovered the purpose for the inquiry?”

“No, to both questions. And there was no extracting information from Cadini. He may be famous for the witty stories he tells, but about this he’s politely closed-mouthed.” Martin narrowed his eyes as he looked at the clock, calculating the time in Moscow. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

“It is not so late,” said Dmitri. “I have been at a reception at the German embassy. It was a grand occasion: six hundred guests or so and everyone in formal clothes. The champagne was German and they served it lavishly, and savory pastries. Very smug, the Germans are, at least on the surface. But they are in trouble, and we all know it. This time it is more than the question of where the borders go. So I was ordered to attend, as was Borseyev of Military Intelligence. We’re to…compare notes later this morning. There are a few leaks that must be plugged.”

“I’m sure having you there made the Germans feel much better,” said Martin with a cynical laugh, remembering how his father had railed at the Germans for not immolating their entire country on the altar of anti-Communism.

“You’re disrespectful, like all Hungarians,” said Dmitri with his own version of good humor which vanished as quickly as it appeared. “I returned only ten minutes ago and there was a message waiting for me. Shall I tell you what it said?”

“About Zhuang Renxin?” Suddenly Martin Bell was paying close attention.

“Yes,” said Dmitri slowly. “Word was relayed to my office by modem and my night secretary delivered the information.” He paused, letting Martin recognize the magnitude of the favor he had requested. “I warn you that I expect a full disclosure from you as soon as you learn why Cardinal Cadini wants to find this woman.”

“Woman?” asked Martin, startled; he realized he had heard Dmitri call Zhuang her before, and it had not registered with him.

“Woman.”

“A nun, do you think?” Martin ventured, his theories all in disarray.

“A widow,” said Dmitri bluntly. “Aged forty-one years. She is a local magistrate—I forget the specific title they use for them now. Her reputation is excellent; they say she strives for fairness.” He waited, and when Martin said nothing more, he asked, “What about the Cardinal?”

Martin shook his head, then answered in a distant voice, “I haven’t any idea. I thought it had to be one of those missing priests you hear about from time to time, or someone who had important information about one of the Cardinals being considered for Pope. I thought it might be something the Church wanted to hide. But this.…” He noticed that it was two minutes later than the last time he had glanced at the clock.

“A past…embarrassment?” suggested Dmitri.

Martin faltered. “I don’t think any of the current College of Cardinals served in China. Tayibha comes from India, Madras; that isn’t near enough.” He checked his pockets for his lighter and cigarettes. “A middle-aged woman magistrate from Szechwan Province. I wonder why.”

“Do your best to find out, Martin-my-friend. And quickly. If you don’t, I will not be so…helpful in future. I might have to alter the nature of our relationship.” He changed his tone. “You have been a very useful agent, Martin. Who would suspect a Stanford Professor who fled Hungary in his youth to be a Colonel in the KGB? And in these days, too. We have few agents with so flawless a cover. It is this very usefulness of yours that has convinced me not to question the occasional assistance you ask of the KGB; still, I can’t help but regard all requests with…suspicion is too strong a word, but I believe it makes my point.”

Right between the ribs, thought Martin, who had few illusions about what lay beneath Dmitri’s courteously smooth exterior. “Dmitri, no one is more perturbed by this than I. You have my word that I will devote time and effort to learning more about this woman. I promise you.” He could hear rising panic in his voice but told himself that Dmitri could not possibly be aware of it. And he knew he was lying to himself

“You are a reliable and persevering fellow, Martin,” said Dmitri. “You’ve handled puzzling situations before, like that biological experiment back in California. No one ever traced the information to you or anyone near you. You remember how pleased we all were. I know you’re capable of doing it again. It would be useful for us to know what the Church wants from this woman. Shall we say by this time next week? I’m afraid I must ask you to give us a little more than your usual excellent report.” He was silent for a carefully calculated three seconds. “If you can’t do this, I doubt I can continue to protect you as I’ve done in the past.”

“I see,” said Martin Bell, feeling his bones go cold. “Rest assured, I’ll give it my highest priority.”

“Exactly.” Three more interminable seconds went by. “Next week, then. Good luck with your researches.”

Martin said his adieux to an empty line.

* * *

They arrived in Hong Kong at three a.m. with as little fuss as possible: Cardinal Mendosa had traveled in what he called his civvies and was no more remarkable than any other fifty-seven-year-old business man in first class. Willie Foot had already arranged for Dame Leonie Purcell to send a car for them, and the local Bishop had been warned with regrets that Cardinal Mendosa was on urgent and private business, and was unavailable to him. Very few of the reporters who lay in wait at the airport were around at that hour, and so Willie and Cardinal Mendosa were on their way almost without incident.

One Chinese paparazzo tried to get pictures of the two men, but Willie had too many years’ experience to be caught in the flash. He moved quickly, blocking Cardinal Mendosa entirely as they both got into the limousine; he closed the door before the frustrated fellow could try for a second shot.

Dame Leonie Purcell was waiting for them, a light tea much the same as she had served to Liang laid out, though it was more appropriate for four in the afternoon than four in the morning. Aside from faint shadows under her large, burnt-toast-colored eyes, there was nothing about her dress or behavior to suggest there was anything unusual about the hour or occasion of their meeting. After Hastings left them alone she turned to Cardinal Mendosa and offered him a plate of scones. “We have clotted cream, of course, and preserves.”

“This is excellent,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “I am truly most appreciative, Dame Leonie.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence.” She looked over toward Willie Foot. “Was it a good flight?”

Willie always found it difficult to make small-talk with Leonie. He nodded several times, and was relieved when Cardinal Mendosa took over for him. “We had a few bumps, naturally. You kind of expect that, coming so far. But for the most part it was uneventful. They had two movies and an endless parade of advertisements to entertain us.” He glanced over at Willie, a little puzzled by his friend’s discomfort. “I’ve been trying to figure out what time it is. I’m afraid I tend to get jet lag—more now than when I was younger. It takes this body a while to catch up with itself. I don’t know what the arrangements you’ve made are, but—”

Dame Leonie beamed at him. “Let me tell you what has been arranged. There has been short notice, but as you are traveling without entourage, it was not too hard to make accommodations. Tomorrow night you will go from here into Guangzhou, privately, of course. You will stay with a Danish importer who maintains a house there. He is very discreet and will make sure no information about his visitors leaks out. The next morning you will be driven northwest into Szechwan Province. It is a very long drive even with the new Revolutionary Highway. It is roughly six hundred miles from Guangzhou to Congqing, and over two hundred more to Hongya. I assume you will need three days to make the journey, given the state of the highway and the realities of fuel and lodgings. All those things have been arranged, transportation and places to stay. Provided you do not draw attention to yourselves, there is no reason for this little expedition of yours not to go smoothly.” She looked over at Willie. “I wish I could go along.”

“We’d have lots of attention then. The British Ambassadress to Hong Kong larking about central China with a reporter and a Texan Cardinal. No. You stay here. It’s too risky,” said Willie softly. “I’ll see you when we get back.” He made no move toward her, but watching them, Cardinal Mendosa had the oddest notion that they had kissed.

Her cheeks were a bit pinker as Dame Leonie turned back to Cardinal Mendosa. “You will have two drivers, and in Dushan there will be a second car if you require it.” She regarded Cardinal Mendosa steadily. “This may be a tactless question, but what is so important about this Chinese widow that a Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church is seeking her out?”

Cardinal Mendosa wondered if the room was bugged and hesitated to speak bluntly because of his doubts. “I have to discuss a few matters with her,” he answered.

Dame Leonie nodded. “Perhaps you’ll tell me what they are if you have the responses you are seeking. On your way back.”

“Possibly,” said Cardinal Mendosa, praying that he would be able to tell her news that would shock the world. “I hope I will be able to.” He tried unsuccessfully to conceal a yawn. “Forgive me. That travel’s getting the better of me. I’m starting to nod off, and I can’t keep my thoughts straight.” He took a generous swig of tea. “I hope you will not find me inexcusably rude if I ask to be shown to my room? I’m quite tired. It would be worse if I fell asleep over the crumpets, wouldn’t it?”

“Certainly, Eminence,” she said, rising and going to the old-fashioned bell-pull to summon her butler. “I wasn’t sure how you prefer to deal with jet lag. There are those who want to stay up until they are driven to sleep.”

“Well, up or down, it’s getting hard to keep two thoughts together. So I’ll thank you for this wonderful late-night snack, and I’ll look forward to seeing you at late lunch, shall we say?” He bent over her hand but did not actually kiss it.

Hastings opened the door and said, “If you will follow me, Your Eminence?”

When Cardinal Mendosa was gone, Leonie came back and sat opposite Willie. “He’s quite charming.”

“That he is,” said Willie, wishing he dared to take her into his arms again.

“I wonder how much of his Texas mannerisms are affectations and how many are real?” she asked, speaking as much to herself as to him.

“Well, he can lay them on very thickly; I’ve seen him do it.” He knew how much Cardinal Mendosa like keeping others off-balance. “He can also set them aside. He’s no naive wild-west cowboy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, no. That much was obvious.” She gave a small, decisive shake of her head. “I wasn’t thinking that at all.” When she looked at Willie again her expression had changed. “I have missed you.”

“Leonie—” he cautioned, making a gesture to remind her of the danger of being overheard. “I don’t think—”

“I haven’t had anyone to go to films with, no one who shares my interests in them. It’s quite…frustrating. And you know my husband’s tastes don’t run to films.” It was their code: she was telling him she had been celibate since he left.

“I’m…sorry to hear that. But I’m glad I was of some value to you.” He stared down at his milky tea. “I didn’t mean that quite the way it came out.”

“I realize that,” she said, and indicated the tea tray. “Is there anything else you want here?”

“Yes, there is,” he said, looking directly at her. “But I think I’d better follow Mendosa’s example and get some rest. We’re going to have a long couple of days.” He put his teacup aside and rose. “I don’t know—there’s something about being around Americans. They rub off on me. I start catching their slang. It’s quite dreadful.”

“A tough break,” she said, trying to sound like a film gangster.

He allowed himself one touch. His fingers brushed down her cheek to her jaw. His gangster accent was not much better than hers. “Yeah. Ain’t it just.”

* * *

Jeffrey, Cardinal Durand of Baltimore sat in his satin cassock across the desk from the Deputy Assistant Secretary of State and did his best to put the fellow at ease, a task that taxed his skills more than he liked to admit. He had already spoken with the man’s advisor in order to secure their meeting, and realized that if the Deputy Assistant Secretary of State could be convinced to help them, he would have two more such interviews ahead of him. “You can understand why the conclave has been at an impasse.”

“No,” said Tyler Mather, making no effort to cooperate with the Cardinal. He touched his tie-tack to activate his micro-recorder. “I doubt anyone in Washington understands what’s going on with the conclave.”

“Well,” said Cardinal Durand, growing flustered too early on, “I should think it’s obvious, with two Popes dead so close together.”

“Not if it serves your purpose,” said Mather, making no apology for his indirect accusation.

“It does not serve the purposes of the Church, believe me,” said Cardinal Durand with asperity. He decided that he was too old for these verbal chess games.

“If you say so,” Mather responded neutrally.

Cardinal Durand took another tack. “You know, back when I was still a Catholic chaplain, during the Korean War, I used to hear men ask what it was supposed to be all about. They were maimed and dying, no older than I was: I was just a kid myself, and I didn’t have any answers for them, except that in some incomprehensible way, it was the Will of God.”

“And you’re saying that two dead Popes are the Will of God?” Mather challenged. “That’s a pretty facile statement, Your Eminence.”

“It’s not intended to be.” He shoved his chair back a little so he could look out of his office window at the garden. “You can’t imagine how much we all wish this were over and behind us. No one knows.”

“Sure,” said Mather, his handsome, mask-like face revealing nothing.

Cardinal Durand turned back to Mather. “There are reasons for these difficulties, just as there are reasons for the Church to ask the United States to assure us of their support of the new Pope, whoever it may be.” This was the part he hated most, the bargaining and fencing.

“You know we can’t do that, Your Eminence,” said Mather.

“Yes you can,” Cardinal Durand countered with more heat. “It might not be official, but if the USA recognizes its diplomatic link to the Vatican and accepts the Pope, no matter who is elevated—well, good heavens, man, it’s still the Catholic Church!—then much of the unrest we fear may attend this new election will be averted.”

“The liberals and the conservatives are slugging it out, are they?” asked Mather. “That might account for your recess.”

“There have been recesses in the conclave before,” said Cardinal Durand stiffly. “This is hardly the first time the Cardinals have instituted this kind of…hiatus in their deliberations.”

“Oh, come on, Your Eminence,” said Mather at his most patronizing. “In the Middle Ages because it took half a year to get to Rome? Or during the Crusades when a third of the Bishops and Archbishops were away at war in the Holy Land? This is 1997, Your Eminence, and those conditions don’t apply any more.” He toyed with the glass of superb sherry Cardinal Durand had served him.

“There are other difficulties,” said Cardinal Durand.

“Dead Popes,” said Mather with satisfaction. “Your Eminence, there’s no reason to con me. You’re afraid you’re going to end up with one of those quasi-Neo-Communists in the driver’s seat, and you don’t want Europe and the U.S. to cut up hard over it. That’s it, right?”

“In part,” Cardinal Durand allowed.

“Well, you know there’s nothing we can do. Separation of Church and State, and all that. You get one of those Neo-Communists, or Neo-Fascists in there, we’ll do our best to accommodate it; we appreciate your telling us about it but it seems pretty obvious already. You want my opinion, you elect that Cardinal Cadini and work it out while he charms everyone.”

“That was what John XXIII was supposed to do, and you remember how he was,” said Cardinal Durand. “Besides, Cardinal Cadini has already disqualified himself from consideration due to his age. He has informed us all that he does not want to be another short-term Pope when there have been so many questions about the deaths of Urban and Celestine.” He gave a short, explosive sigh. “Five other Cardinals have made similar requests and for the same reasons.”

“Shows some sense,” Mather approved, and had the last of his sherry. “Well, those of us at State are betting on Cardinal Gemme. He’s a little too left and too worldly for our tastes but he’s up-to-date on everything and he’s a whiz with the newsmedia.”

“So he is,” said Cardinal Durand, showing a mild distaste for the charismatic French Cardinal.

“You could do worse. It could be that Hungarian.” He set down the crystal glass. “The Neo-Communists would approve of Gemme. He’s close enough to most of them in ideology but he isn’t round-the-bend, the way some of the South Americans are. That’s got us upset, if you want to know the truth. Those two revolutions in South America have already upset things pretty badly, and it looks like we’ll have another one before the year is out. Those countries are all going to the left, and their Cardinals with them, if they aren’t stuck at the far right. You want the unofficial verdict from State, you push for Gemme and keep everyone pretty happy.”

“It might not be so easy,” said Cardinal Durand, doing his best not to sound offended, though he was. “We have to answer to more than you, or the South Americans, or Neo-Communists.”

“Well, the Third-world countries aren’t going to make that much of a difference, are they?” Mather asked with a faint smile. “Are they?”

“Actually, I was referring to God,” said Cardinal Durand stiffly. He frowned at Mather. “I don’t expect you to know what I’m talking about, but Cardinals are more than political hacks, or they’re supposed to be. I was hoping that you or someone at the Department of State might be willing to see our predicament for what it is. Of course politics plays a part, and there are Catholics all over the world who seek our guidance in things political as well as spiritual. For that is the core of our conflict: before we answer to anyone else, we must answer to God.” He looked toward the elegant bronze crucifix on the far wall. “And in regard to the election of the next Pope, God might not give us much say in the matter.”

Tyler Mather was about to laugh but saw Cardinal Durand’s face, and fell silent. He lowered his eyes. “No disrespect, Your Eminence.”

Chapter 6

It was fifteen minutes before the appointed hour when Clancy McEllton arrived at the little grove just off the main equestrian trail in the park. He looked innocuous enough—looking innocuous was his stock-in-trade—as he strolled past the designated bench four times, apparently enjoying the flowers. When he was satisfied that he was not being set up, he strolled a quarter of a mile down the lane, then came back toward the appointed place at a comfortable amble, his unmemorable features set in a curious half-smile; he rather enjoyed being back in the field again after three inactive years; and the money had piqued his interest, he could not deny it.

A man sat on the bench now, a tall, thin fellow between forty and fifty with a nervous tick in his cheek. He cleared his throat as McEllton sat down. “It’s…uh…to o nice for rain tonight.” He said the code as if he were a sixth grader forced to recite in class. His accent was faintly southern U.S., but McEllton did not know the States well enough to pin-point the origin.

“Well, perhaps tomorrow. The weather’s uncertain.” McEllton hated working with amateurs, as this chap clearly was, but his curiosity kept him where he was.

“Not as bad as the economy,” said the thin man.

“That’s a different change in the weather,” McEllton responded, finishing the sequence. “Mister Greene?”

“Mister McEllton?” He grew more apprehensive instead of less. “Good of you to come.”

“Your organization—whatever it may be—caught my attention with the twenty thousand dollars you sent. What is it you want of me, and why me? I’m largely out of the business these days. Except in an advisory capacity.” He knew too many people now, was too easily recognized in spite of his unremarkable features, and it was no longer safe for him to venture into the twilight realm of covert operations, no matter whose side he worked for.

“So we understand. International Security Services pays you well, we understand.” Greene cleared his throat and stared at the thick hedges that separated the park from the heavy London traffic. “I have been sent to get your advice, and your assistance.”

“How?” McEllton asked bluntly. “What can someone like me do for International Vision, Ltd.? And I suppose you want my advice apart from International Security Service?” He used the name that had been on the letterhead accompanying the twenty thousand dollars. “And who, exactly, is International Vision, Ltd.?”

“There’s no reason you should know about it,” said Greene stiffly. “Our agreement is to pay you for services rendered. You, personally, not International Security Service. Who we are should not concern you.” He raised his square chin and added, “You haven’t bothered much about such matters in the past, from what we’ve learned.”

“There’s that,” said McEllton philosophically. “Still, I thought I knew all the dodges. Your alias is a new one to me, so I guess I don’t.” He decided he had been out of the field a little too long. “What do you want of me?”

Once again Greene took a little time to gather his thoughts. “We can’t find anyone else with your qualifications, and that makes our position difficult. Our research indicates that you are the nephew of Father McEllton, a Jesuit serving in Rome.”

Of the many things McEllton was expecting, this was not part of them. He looked at Greene, actually startled. “Uncle Neddy?” he asked. “You want to know about Uncle Neddy?”

“Father Edward McEllton, yes,” said Greene. “Assuming he is your uncle? as our records indicate.”

McEllton nodded. “My father’s younger brother,” he said. “But if you know he’s my uncle, you know where he is in the family, don’t you.”

“Yes, we do,” said Greene.

“Well, then you also know there isn’t much family feeling among us all. Uncle Neddy isn’t one to peddle influence, if that’s what you’re looking for. His first and only loyalty is to the Church, Mister Greene.” He had to suppress the anger that flickered through him.

“Father McEllton has quite a secure position at the Vatican. He is very close to the Curia and the College of Cardinals, or so our research indicates. If he does not know the reason for this delay in the selection of the Pope, he will be able to learn the reason from one of the Cardinals. He is apt to be in their confidence, or be able to obtain correct information with little effort and no suspicion falling on him.” Greene coughed once as if his throat were suddenly dry. “Would you agree?”

In spite of his ambivalence toward his uncle, McEllton regarded Greene with increased suspicion. “Possibly.”

“International Vision, Ltd. has been trying to find out what has delayed the election of a new Pope. We are extremely interested in the election of the Pope and the policy of the Vatican; that is all you need to know. The reasons may be crucial to…certain of our dealings. With Urban and Celestine both dead, no one can anticipate what the Church will do next. The recessed conclave is most disturbing. The Church is being very secretive about this recess; we would like to know why.” Greene favored McEllton with an unfocused smile. “If we knew the reason for the recess, and could get some notion about how long it might last, we could assess other developments.”

“What other developments?” McEllton asked, not caring that his tone was offensive; he wanted his employment clarified. “You’re telling me that you haven’t been able to bribe anyone at the Vatican to give you that information, so now you want to hire a spy. Have I got it right?”

“That’s our position, if you want to put it that way,” Greene said, looking smug. “You, being Father Edward McEllton’s nephew, have good reason to visit him. You have been in Italy four times in the last three years, so it would not be remarkable for you to go again, would it?”

“My uncle isn’t at the Vatican now,” said McEllton, wondering if that admission was a blunder. “And he did not see me the last four times I was in Rome.”

“He’s at a monastery outside Rome: yes, we are aware of that. And that is the reason we want you to call on him. Inside the Vatican, he would be on guard and might not tell you what we wish to find out. But now that he is removed from the Vatican, he might be willing to reveal what happened in the conclave that has brought about this recess.” Greene patted the case he carried. “We are prepared to pay handsomely, if you will recall the letter we sent you: thirty thousand dollars to make the journey, no matter what you learn, and a bonus of fifty thousand if you can bring us accurate and timely information. With the twenty we’ve already sent as a show of good faith, that makes a tidy one hundred thousand, tax free.”

“For the reason for the recess and the length of time it’s expected to go on?” McEllton asked, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “A high price for a little speculation.”

From somewhere beyond the hedge there was a squeal of brakes and the sudden disruption of the susurrus of traffic. Several angry voices were raised but there were no cries for help.

“It wouldn’t be speculation—” He stopped as two young women came down the path on glossy horses: they were cantering, which was not permitted within the park, perhaps because their mounts had been frightened by the accident. One was fully rigged out in field boots, breeches and hacking jacket while the other wore a fringed shirt, jeans and red lizard western boots. Both rode in English saddles. They laughed as they went by.

“It wouldn’t be speculation,” Greene repeated when the girls were safely out of earshot. “It would be more like an educated guess or maybe something more certain. We’ve already exhausted the speculation of those who are Vatican-watchers, and we need something more, something inside. Father McEllton has served as secretary to the conclave, and he knows what is going on there whether he’s in attendance or not. He is one of the few who would not tend to misinterpret the events. You agree? We want to know what he knows, that’s all.”

“All? Uncle Neddy's as tight as a clam on Vatican things.” He looked away from Greene. “Why should he tell me anything, nephew or no? He knows I haven’t set foot in a church to worship since I was sixteen.”

“A man of your…profession might well suffer a change of heart as he ages, given your past,” said Greene significantly, and the sound of his voice was so cynical that McEllton stared at him.

“I don’t think Uncle Neddy would accept that,” said McEllton slowly, a smile of reluctant respect for Uncle Neddy brightening his features.

“Then find another reason. A good one. I’m sure you can think of something plausible as you go to Rome,” Greene insisted. “It is worth it to us to pay you to go. Aren’t you curious yourself about what’s been going on in the Catholic Church? Don’t you watch the news about it?”

McEllton shrugged, but he knew—and he suspected Greene knew as well—that his indifference was sham. “You do understand that I might not find out anything? Uncle Neddy might refuse to see me, and if he does see me, he might not talk with me about the Pope or anything else. It may be a wasted trip, do you see.”

“You still come out fifty thousand ahead, and even in these inflationary days, fifty thousand is a comfortable sum. There will be no questions to answer about the money, and you will be able to hide it away in your numbered account.” Greene rose. “I will expect to hear from you within ten days. I suppose you can arrange to get to Rome and back to London in that time?” His sarcasm was blatant now and he looked at McEllton with abiding contempt. “The tools we must use.”

McEllton refused to be dragged into the exchange. “Shocking, isn’t it?” he replied lightly and watched Greene walk away.

* * *

Traffic appeared light to Foot and Mendosa on the Revolutionary Highway but the driver assured them earnestly that it was much heavier than two years before when the roadway had first opened. “There was a great rush to complete it. In preparation for dealing with Hong Kong,” he added in excellent, British-accented English. “Now that we are getting all reunified, trade has picked up, shipping’s on the increase, and during the transition there will be more business coming here. China is like that, historically, always eager for foreign trade, and alert to finding new markets. With arrangements as they are.…” He made a gesture that Mendosa interpreted as philosophical resignation.

“It seems a reasonable compromise,” said Willie Foot, “the way they’ve arranged things with Hong Kong. It makes it easier for everyone, the PRC as well as Hong Kong.”

“Yes. Better for keeping trade and money. Not so much fuss,” said the driver who answered to Nigel as well as to No Xingchou. “No need to use the army or fight about anything, not the way some do in Europe. The People’s Republic leadership doesn’t want another loss of face the way they had about a decade back. They learned quite a lesson then, though they didn’t realize it for a while. They don’t like seeing their mistakes on the worldwide evening news, with half the nations on earth calling them murderers.” He laughed loudly and pointed to a huge, concrete building. “Zuo Nangkao does not underestimate the pressure of world opinion, particularly in trade negotiations. He wishes to return prosperity to the Center of the World. So the new transition with Hong Kong and these preparations dovetail. They’re putting up more warehouses along the highway, so that Guangzhou won’t get too congested. It’s pretty bad already.” He paused. “We used to wonder how Hong Kong would accommodate China in the transition, and now Zuo is discovering that the more difficult problem is how China will accommodate Hong Kong. Everyone assumed that it would make no difference, which was a great error, I fear.” He continued to smile.

“How long before we reach Congqing?” asked Mendosa. Urban sprawl was nothing new to him, and he paid it scant attention, less than he might have if he had not been on such an urgent errand. Little as he wanted to admit it, he was nervous. He had wakened with visions in his eyes, and the face he had not seen clearly before was now indelibly in his mind. He would know that woman anywhere in the world.

“If the weather is good and there are no delays we will be there by mid-afternoon.” Nigel No pointed to a heavy truck laden with roofing tiles lumbering down the road in the opposite direction. “That’s assuming they honor our gas ration and we don’t have to scrounge some.”

“Oh?” Willie perked up. “Do you think there’s any danger of that?”

“Well, a little,” said Nigel. “Time before last we had to chase around for fuel because some government officials came through first. Seven limousines and two army trucks for support. They dried up official gas for half a day in every direction. I haven’t seen anything like that this time, but you never know.” He nodded in the direction of a farm set away from the Revolutionary Highway. “The farmers usually have fuel but they charge three times the set price for it.”

“In this country?” Willie asked in mock horror.

“We Chinese know the difference between profit and ideology,” said Nigel, laughing again. “And another thing, speaking of ideology, you both remember we aren’t going to tell anyone what Mendosa does, right?”

“We’ve agreed about that,” Mendosa said. He was dressed casually and had left off the lapel pin that identified him as a Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church. By all outward appearances, he was a middle-aged American tourist who was in the company of a British journalist. “I don’t want trouble any more than you do.” In fact, he added it to himself, he wanted it much less.

“No blessings at meals,” warned Nigel.

“No blessings, no prayers, no genuflecting, nothing like that,” said Mendosa as he had promised the day before. “Just another round-eye.”

“Someone might wonder why a round-eye wants to go to Hongya,” Nigel No reminded him.

“I have to check out some information, that’s all.” It was the answer they had rehearsed and Mendosa was tired of it. “I know a little about dealing with people, and officials. I think I can manage it.”

Willie put his hand on Mendosa’s arm. “Relax, Eminence. Take it easy; we still have a long way to go.”

“It’s Charles while we’re here, Willie.” Mendosa took a deep, deliberate breath and tried to stretch out his long legs in the cramped confines of the car. “I’ll strive to keep calm. Thanks for reminding me.”

“And thanks for reminding me, Charles,” said Willie, emphasizing the last two words and wishing he could say Mendosa’s first name with ease and comfort.

“I was born in Hong Kong,” Nigel remarked a little later. “But most of the family was still in the PRC and we spent years learning to pass messages and people in and out. I’ve missed that this last year, but having you along, Mendosa, it takes me back.”

Mendosa smiled. “You’re enjoying yourself.”

Nigel nodded emphatically. “Oh, goddam yes!”

* * *

“Come, come, there is no reason to suppose that I am investigating anything,” said Dmitri Karodin smoothly to his guest. “If this were an investigation, we would not be meeting at my home, would we?” His apartment was large and handsome even by some European standards; from a Russian perspective, the head of the KGB lived in luxury. “My cook has made some of those little Italian cookies you like so much, the ones with anise that are not very sweet.”

“Too kind,” said Metropolitan Pavel Gosteshenko, watching his host narrowly. He had almost decided he ought not to have come, and having come, ought not to have pretended that this was a social visit.

“You like many things Italian, don’t you?” said Karodin at his most genial. “You were in Rome only a short while ago, and you said that you were well-received by your friends in the Catholic Church. I attended the reception on your return, as you may remember, and I found your assessment of the Catholic predicament very…instructive. You have excellent comprehension of the political issues. No doubt having Cardinals from all over the world makes a difference in the Church’s stance. It’s that Dutch Cardinal you like especially, isn’t it? the one who used to be a psychiatrist. Don’t you ever question his motives at becoming a churchman after learning about the human psyche? I could not comprehend such a change. He is clearly a rational man. How is it possible for an educated man to accept such blatantly mythic legends as virgin births and rising from the dead as anything but a metaphor? And if a metaphor, what is the need for worship and ritual?” He permitted himself a rich chuckle, then did his best to appear contrite. “I’m sorry if I have given you offence, Metropolitan.”

Metropolitan Gosteshenko fixed his expression to one of neutral benevolence. “We are used to such questions, and worse,” he said pointedly. “There are more than a few Russians who have earned their martyrs’ crowns in the last century.”

“Touché,” said Karodin with a fencer’s gesture. Then he looked up as his cook came into the drawing room. “Ah, here are the Italian cookies. I must say, I can understand why you like these,” he added as he took one from the platter after the Metropolitan had his first.

As he took a second cookie, Metropolitan Gosteshenko looked hard at Karodin. “What is it you want to know?”

“Nothing,” said Karodin with a wave of his hand. “Everything. It is a burden of my office that I am greedy for every bit of information I can find, whether it has any purpose or not. It may be an obsession, something that is not healthy at all. Your friend the Dutch Cardinal might know.” He signaled to his cook. “Tea. Unless you would rather have wine or vodka?”

“Tea is quite satisfactory,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko, being polite as well as apprehensive. He had to admit that the cookies were excellent. “I thank you for this delicacy.”

“An amusement for my cook,” Karodin said, dismissing the thanks. “And a change for me. It is one of the pleasures of travel, I think, having food that is new.” He paused. “Still, rather the Italians than some others I could think of. They’re inspired cooks in Italy.”

“Yes, they are,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko, trying to determine what it was that Karodin was fishing for. “I have several cookbooks from Italy, if you would like to borrow them.”

Karodin inclined his head. “Sadly, my cook reads only Russian. But the offer was generous.” He munched on the cookie, then called out, “The tea, if you please.”

The cook returned shortly with a large, old-fashioned samovar made of polished brass. He put this down and looked over toward Karodin. “Is there anything more?”

“No, Anatoli, thank you, that’s all,” said Karodin, watching while the cook returned to the kitchen. He radiated benevolence and hospitality. “Let me pour you some of this excellent tea. Anatoli is a traditionalist when it comes to tea; the tea is very strong. I recommend sugar.” He had risen and had already selected a cup for his guest.

“Thank you,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko, more on guard than ever. “Sugar would be fine.”

“Try as I will,” said Karodin as he prepared two cups of the dark, steaming tea, “I cannot get used to the British idea of tea, or the Orientals, for that matter. To me, tea must be blacker than coffee and sweet enough to make your eyes water.” He brought the cups back to their chairs, held out both to Metropolitan Gosteshenko so that he could select one. When the churchman had taken one, Karodin went back to his chair. “Frankly, Metropolitan, I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on a mystery that has me quite…bewildered.”

Metropolitan Gosteshenko could not imagine Dmitri Karodin being bewildered by anything, but he did not dispute. With every polite gesture of his host, he grew more troubled. “If it is possible, I will do what I may.”

Karodin was certainly aware of Metropolitan Gosteshenko’s hesitation but ignored it. “I am certain you are as curious about this as I am—indeed, you may be more curious because of your vocation. I have heard—it does not matter how—that there have been some questions asked within the Catholic Church recently. One of the questions concerns a woman in China. What an unexpected turn, a woman in China! and the inquiry coming at such a time. I cannot fathom what the Catholic Church might want with a woman in China, and my informant could provide no hint in that regard. And I learned that two days ago, Cardinal Mendosa of Houston entered the People’s Republic of China through Hong Kong, his mission unknown and unacknowledged. He did not make it an official visit and has paid no diplomatic calls on anyone. For all the fuss he has caused, he might as well not be there at all.” He leaned back and took a long, satisfying sip of tea. “It is a very odd thing for him to do, isn’t it.”

“I suppose he has his reasons,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko, recalling the concerns Cardinal van Hooven had expressed.

“And being an American, he is given to caprice, in spite of being a Cardinal. As I recall, he is a Texan American, which is more capricious still. Texans. I’ve met a few of them, of course, and I watch as much American television as the next man, I confess.” He smiled at his own wit and had a little more tea, giving Metropolitan Gosteshenko the opportunity to speak if he wished to.

Metropolitan Gosteshenko tried not to stare at Karodin, and did his best to choose his words carefully, so that he would not appear to know more than he did, or to be concealing anything from Karodin. “As you remarked, I am not acquainted with many of the Cardinals, and that includes the Cardinal from Houston. If he has decided to locate this Chinese woman for the Church, I suppose he has a good reason to do it, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Something that might embarrass the conclave, perhaps,” Karodin prodded.

“I am not a Catholic Cardinal. I have no way of knowing,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko, thinking that the tea was now tasteless.

“No way of knowing,” Karodin echoed. “Then I presume you are as apprehensive as I am. As the head of the Russian Orthodox Church, you must have some feeling for this strange development in the election of the Pope. Your Dutch friend might have mentioned something to you.”

“Not that I am at liberty to discuss,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko, hoping that he had not made a mistake to admit so much.

“But you know something,” Karodin fairly pounced on this. “You know what is going on, and why.”

“Not truly,” countered the Metropolitan hastily. “I have a little information, no more than that, and the rest is surmise. Anything I tell you could be misleading.” He stared down at the dark tea in his cup. “I know that there is interest in the Chinese woman, but I have no idea why.”

“It has to do with the election of the Pope,” said Karodin with conviction. “She is essential to the process for some reason.”

“Apparently,” was the cautious response. “I cannot be sure. I suspect something of the sort to be the case, but that is because of the events in Rome. It is possible that there is no connection and the concern is nothing more than coincidence.” He hoped he sounded convincing.

“Being a rational man I do not believe in coincidence. The conclave is recessed and that Texan goes to China unofficially. To me there must be a link, and I will find out what it is.” He rose and filled his cup again. “Would you like more tea, Metropolitan Gosteshenko?”

Reluctantly he accepted. “Very kind.”

“My pleasure,” said Karodin as he refilled the cup. “You know, if there were to be a change in Vatican policy, it might have repercussions even here in Moscow, Metropolitan.”

“It’s possible,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko as he took the tea and had another cookie. How absurd the whole meeting was, he thought, and tried not to be frightened.

“Oh, there is no doubt about it. I am surprised you haven’t considered what this could mean to the Orthodox Church. The Vatican has advocated policies that have often made your position more precarious than necessary. Now, if they alter that posture, it might make your situation more awkward than it already is, with all the recent changes.”

“I am certain that will not happen,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko, thinking that surely Piet van Hooven would warn him if such alterations were in the offing.

“Are you?” Karodin did not further dispute this. “We have made inquiries about this woman in Szechwan Province, and have learned little that would account for the interest in her, which is the more perplexing. She is an honorable widow from what we can determine, a local magistrate of some kind, with a reputation for fairness and good sense.” He looked at Metropolitan Gosteshenko with an expression that might have been open on anyone else.

“I cannot comment. I know nothing about it.” He tried another cookie and found it had lost its savor.

“Would you like to speculate?” Karodin suggested without a trace of apology for his blatant pressure-tactics.

“No,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko. “It might not be convenient for you, General, but the fact of the matter is that I have no more knowledge about why the Roman Catholic Church is hunting a Chinese peasant woman, or why the conclave is in recess, than does the average watcher of television. Anything I might say would not be of use to you.”

“I don’t think you appreciate yourself, Metropolitan. However,” he went on with an impish smile, “we won’t press it now. I do think you are telling the truth as you see it, that you are not well-informed on this case.” His eyes twinkled, but whether from amusement or cynicism, neither Karodin nor Gosteshenko could say.

“Thank you, General.” He managed to swallow the last of his tea without coughing.

Karodin lifted his cup as if offering a toast. “To you as well, Metropolitan.”

* * *

What always impressed Alexander, Cardinal Bradeston of Boston was how small the Oval Office was. And when the President was the six-foot-six former running back Houghton Carey, then the room shrank around him.

“Good morning, Cardinal Bradeston,” said President Carey, rising and extending his hand, negotiating the delicate protocol of a pro forma Methodist accepting an official visit from the Vatican. “Always good to see you.”

“Thank you, Mister President,” said Cardinal Bradeston, glad that he had chosen to wear secular clothes. He shook the President’s hand and waited until Carey had sat down before he did the same. “Very good of you to make room in your schedule, given how short my notice was.”

“Well,” said President Carey, turning his hand over on the polished rosewood surface of his over-sized desk.

“And there would not have been a request if the circumstances had not dictated the necessity,” Cardinal Bradeston said.

“I assumed something of the sort,” said President Carey, who had been surprised when his appointments secretary informed him of the unexpected arrival of Cardinal Bradeston. “What’s on your mind?”

“Not just my mind, I’m afraid, Mister President,” said Cardinal Bradeston with a slight hesitation as he sought for the words to describe his predicament. “We’re in need of a…a diplomatic intermediary, and it is the hope of many of us that you might be willing to serve in that capacity.” He looked directly at Houghton Carey. “It’s a very uncertain situation, and the Vatican is not in a position to pursue the matter directly; not at present, in any case,” he added truthfully, thinking of the nine other Cardinals who were on missions similar to his own.

“A diplomatic intermediary? I wouldn’t have thought that the Vatican needed anyone in—” He broke off, recalling the rumors that had been circulating for the last week that the Vatican was trying to find someone or something in the People’s Republic of China.

“The Vatican is its own state, of course, but our diplomatic relations are…strained in certain quarters. We have no embassy in Iran, for example.” He grinned to show that this was supposed to be a joke and was rewarded by a brief chuckle from the President.

“All right,” said Houghton Carey. “I gather that the problem is with one of these nations.” He leaned back in his specially designed chair. “Let’s spare the tap dance, Eminence, and we’ll stipulate that the country is the PRC, right?”

“Yes,” said Cardinal Bradeston.

“The word is that you have to find someone there. They’ve got pretty good records in Beijing,” he declared without pausing for breath, “and they ought to be able to find this person for you in forty-eight hours, tops.” He indicated three telephones on his desk. “Or did you want to use my direct line?”

“Not precisely,” said Cardinal Bradeston, doing his best to keep from sounding disappointed. “What we had hoped—all of us participating in this search—was that you would be willing to support our petition to bring this woman out of China to the Vatican.”

“She’s that important?” President Carey asked skeptically.

“Apparently. We have reason to think so, yes,” said Cardinal Bradeston, a trifle grimly.

“It’s ticklish,” said the President with the slight, candid smile it had taken him years to perfect. “We’ve got separation of Church and State, Cardinal, and if we take action on your behalf, as you ought to remember from your civics classes in high school, we leave ourselves open to criticism that we have not honored that basic philosophy of the Constitution.” He folded his hands on the desk. “I don’t know if I can help you.”

Cardinal Bradeston knew that he had a very few minutes remaining in his appointment, so he abandoned most of his arguments in favor of the one he thought might have the most political weight; he did not bother with subtle preparation. “Is this because it’s about Catholicism, or because it’s about an Asian woman?”

President Carey sat up a little straighter. “Well, well, well, well, you can hit below the belt, can’t you, Eminence?”

“It wasn’t what I—” Cardinal Bradeston started only to be cut off.

“Oh, don’t spoil the effect, Bradeston. You found the Achilles heel in my posture and you used it. Good for you.” He looked up. “I used to look out at the Rose Garden, but it’s too distracting.”

Cardinal Bradeston did his best not to hold his breath. In his mind he repeated the Fifty-first Psalm, his thoughts turned inward to keep him from revealing how much he wanted to sway the President to support him and his request. When one of the telephones jangled, he almost jumped.

President Carey thumbed the intercom. “Maxine, take care of that for me, will you?”

“At once, Mister President,” the voice on the intercom assured him.

“Now then,” said Houghton Carey when the telephone was silent, “you need an assist to get this woman out of China, and for some reason you have to get her to the Vatican. You mind telling me why?”

“I’m sorry,” said Cardinal Bradeston, looking away. “I am sorry, Mister President, but—”

“I’m sorry too,” said President Carey with false concern. “If I don’t know what I’m endorsing I can’t very well act on it in good conscience, can I? Especially something like this, international, where the repercussions could have pretty serious political fall-out if anything goes wrong.” His teeth flashed in what was supposed to be a smile.

“It’s a very awkward problem, Mister President,” said Cardinal Bradeston, aware that every word he was saying was being recorded by at least three different security organizations.

“So is being accused of getting it wrong, Your Eminence.” He started to rise, his hand extended for a last, cordial handshake. “Well, it’s too bad that I—”

“We need to find her,” Cardinal Bradeston interrupted. He saw that he had the President’s attention. “Without her, the conclave may have to be suspended for an indefinite period, and the Catholic Church cannot continue much longer without a leader. You understand what risks we would run if we had to keep on as we are. We have no means to proceed if there is no Pope.”

“And this woman will make a difference?” Houghton Carey asked, his brows raised inquisitively, his expression one of polite disbelief.

“Yes, we think so,” said Cardinal Bradeston, already dreading how he would have to explain the matter to the President once the widow arrived in Rome.

“Un-huh,” said the President, caution in every aspect.

“And your support could go a long way to…easing the transition.” He wished he had said it better; but short of revealing the details of the election, he could not offer more.

“Is that what Cardinal Mendosa’s doing in China?” President Carey asked, satisfied at the shock he saw in Cardinal Bradeston’s face. “Oh, don’t be so surprised: we knew where he was ten minutes after he got off the plane in Hong Kong.”

“It…has something to do with this, yes,” said Cardinal Bradeston. “It isn’t an official visit.”

“No kidding,” said President Carey with heavy sarcasm. “On his way to the central part of the country and not one diplomatic or parochial stop along the way. No notice sent to the PRC, or to Premier Zuo; nothing formal arranged. What are you up to, Cardinal?”

Cardinal Bradeston sighed and stared out the window. In the garden beyond someone was trimming one of the hedges, with a Marine guard not far away from him. “I truly wish I knew.” He looked back at Houghton Carey, conceding defeat. “Yes, Charles Mendosa is looking for the woman in question.” Then he was rising, extending his hand. “I ask your pardon for intruding in your busy schedule this way and I thank you on behalf of the Holy See for your attention.”

Now that he was off the hook, President Carey did not want to be, for he might be excluded from later developments, which did not suit him, not with an American Cardinal right in the middle of it. “Wait a minute,” he protested. “Charles Mendosa comes from Houston, Cardinal or not. He’s a damned Texan. And now he’s off in the PRC, flying blind from what you say. What are you people up to? And why?”

“We’re trying to find a certain widow,” said Cardinal Bradeston with a great show of patience. “I doubt that’s much of a secret any more. Until we find her, we will not know what to do next.”

“But you need her because of the conclave?” the President said, his brows drawn together. “You priests—the whole Church—are always following your private agendas, that’s the trouble.”

“Unlike politicians?” Cardinal Bradeston countered with a wisp of a smile.

“You got me there,” President Carey allowed, making himself relax and return the smile. “Trouble is, if I tell you yes and the whole thing is a fuck-up, then I’m up to my neck in it. But if it turns out fine, and it gets out that I didn’t do my part, I’m still up to my neck in it.” He nodded once, decisively. “Okay. I tell you what: when you hear from Cardinal Mendosa, you call me—my secretary will give you the numbers to use—and you tell me what you’ve found out. So long as it isn’t going to embarrass this administration or stir up any more religious feeling than’s out there already, I want to do my part. If it looks like it’s going to turn sour, I want you to know that I won’t be able to help you.” He put his big hands flat on the glossy desk. “That’s the deal. I’m not going to haggle about it.”

“What about the Secretary of State?” asked Cardinal Bradeston, not wanting to discover that the whole offer was nothing more than a political gesture, without substance.

“I’ll explain things to her,” said President Carey. “She’ll go along with what I decide on this.” He cocked his head at the Cardinal. “You remember the flak she took at her confirmation hearing because of religion? Be glad it happened. You know she’ll leave this alone after it’s settled.” He rose, once again dwarfing the Cardinal from Boston. “I hear that your guy in Baltimore’s been buzzing around State, too.”

“Cardinal Durand has arranged a few discussions, yes. But as far as I know, the Secretary of State has not agreed to see him.” Cardinal Bradeston kept his neutral expression with some effort.

“But you were kind of hoping I’d clear away some of the—” He made a wide motion as if shoving brush aside.

“We would appreciate it, Mister President, and we would pray for you.” He stood still, his eyes never leaving Houghton Carey’s rugged face.

The President laughed out loud. “Goddam, you guys are canny, as my old grandmother used to say. You hedge your bets better than the best Las Vegas hotshot.” His mirth was gone as quickly as it came. “All right; I’ll call the Secretary of State and tell her to arrange a meeting with Cardinal Durand. But you’d better warn your Baltimore colleague that he’s going to have to be more forthcoming than you’ve been with me if he expects to get anywhere with Abby. She’s a tough and skillful woman, and she’s nobody’s, and I mean nobody’s fool. Not even mine.”

“Thank you, Mister President,” said Cardinal Bradeston, trying to decide if he ought to offer a blessing. “It was good of you to give me so much time on such short notice.” He started toward the door, relieved that the very awkward visit was over.

“By the way, Your Eminence,” said the President, “my time is pretty full. I don’t think I can do much with the Secretary of State until you let me know what Mendosa’s up to. You know how it is, I’m sure. You should be able to do that in the next forty-eight hours, shouldn’t you?”

Cardinal Bradeston bit back a sharp retort, though his eyes snapped. He nodded once. “Certainly, Mister President.” He hated having his hand forced this way, but knew it was little enough, given what the Church was asking.

Houghton Carey showed him a predatory grin. “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

Chapter 7

“Why would a journalist be traveling with a member of the clergy of the Roman Catholic Church?” The military officer asking the question still held all of Willie Foot’s documents in his hand, though he had returned Charles Mendosa’s to him.

“I speak Chinese and Mendosa does not,” said Willie promptly, glad that he could offer the truth as an explanation. “I have served as a translator for him before this journey. There was a Catholic meeting, you will recall, on Asian issues in Manila, which I covered, and where I was able to assist Cardinal Mendosa. As it happens, I was on assignment in Rome when he decided to make this trip, and he asked me to accompany him.”

“And why is it that this journey was not arranged through proper diplomatic channels?” the officer inquired. It was quite warm in the characterless roadside building where the army had stopped them. There was a pervasive odor of machine oil still on the air. He looked from Willie to Mendosa. “And why is the churchman not in church garments? It is required of them, is it not? Perhaps he is attempting to reintroduce missionaries to our country.”

Willie relayed this at once, adding, “You better have any answer for that; they’re touchy about missionaries.”

“Tell the…whatever his rank is, address him as one level higher. Tell him that I am not here for any purpose but to speak to one woman near Hongya, that I do not wear clerical garb because I am not here as a priest, and I do not wish to give offence to the Chinese people. Besides,” he added more lightly, “I’d much rather wear what I’ve got on now than a cassock.”

“The churchman is making a joke of us!” the officer accused sharply, eyes unforgiving as he heard amusement in Mendosa’s voice. He took a single, hasty step toward the Cardinal, but was halted by Willie’s answer.

“About the clerical clothing,” said Willie, hastening to provide the required explanation. He went on to relay Mendosa’s comments and said, “I have known Mendosa for some time, Captain. He wears his priest’s clothing only when necessary. He does not approve of the abuse of position and asks for no privilege, thus he clothes himself like the people of his native Texas. He has created a controversy about it within his Church.”

“Has he?” Abruptly the officer signaled to Nigel No. “Is what they have said so far true?”

The driver stood very straight to answer. “As far as I know, yes, everything is true. I have even read a year ago that Cardinal Mendosa had offended one of the other high-ranking Church officials because he likes to wear cowboy boots and business suits. As you see, he is wearing his boots now.” He appeared completely respectful, but when he gave Willie a quick glance, he winked.

The officer was torn; he did not want to appear curious about this American, and at the same time, he had only once before seen a real pair of cowboy boots up close. He did his best not to stare too obviously. “A foolish dispute,” he announced as he tapped his hand with Willie’s documents. “There is no reason to detain you at present,” he decided aloud. “But I will send a full report of this incident, and if there is any change in your plans, no matter how minor, you must notify this station at once. Is that understood?” He held out the documents to Willie. “We will keep watch for you, Mister Foot, Mister Mendosa, and we will make note of all you do.”

“No doubt,” said Willie as he reclaimed his passport, visa, and press credentials.

“Inform the…Captain,” said Mendosa, “that we are grateful to him for his concern, and his determination to protect the people of his country from misinformation. Integrity is an admirable quality in an officer. I take it as an honor that he would devote any of his valuable time to our inquiries. No doubt he has more pressing duties, but he gives time to us as well.” He waited as Willie relayed this remark, and listened to the reply as if the words made sense to him.

“He says that the People’s Republic has the welfare of all men at heart, and strives to show the world the best way, in the face of the failure of other communist states.” Willie tucked his papers back into his large inner-jacket pocket. “How did you know that would get a positive response?”

“Willie, dear Willie,” said Mendosa with an angelic smile, “I read the papers, and those of us in the upper echelons of the Church are not nearly so insulated as we once were. John-Paul II made me the secretary to his Office of Asian Affairs, and it has long been part of my job to pay attention to what happens here. Premiere Zuo has been doing his best to make internationalism the new line, and I’m merely adopting his rhetoric.” He nodded to the young officer. “How old is he, do you think?”

“Twenty,” said Nigel No, surprising both Mendosa and Willie Foot. “I heard one of his men say it when they brought us in. He has been advanced…promoted just recently and some of the others are jealous.” He bowed to the young officer, then marked toward the door. “There is one thing to be said for this incident,” Nigel observed as Willie and Mendosa followed him out into the sunlight, “and that is that we will run into no fuel shortages now. I have an army authorization as well as my other rations.” He beamed at Mendosa. “You will find your widow yet, Cardinal and—”

“She is not my widow,” Mendosa corrected him testily. “I’m neither married nor dead. And say Charles.” He got back into the car, making another attempt to find a comfortable adjustment of the seatbelt.

“Well, whatever you like,” said Nigel, settling into the driver’s seat. “We could get some rain tonight. I hope we’re settled in by the time it comes. The roof leaks a little.” He started the car and swung back onto the Revolutionary Highway.

A little while later, Mendosa asked, “Do you think there will be any trouble for Zhuang Renxin if she talks to me?”

Nigel thought about his answer. “They’ll want to interview her, of course, and to find out what you said to her, the reason for your visit. Since she has a good reputation, that will stand for something, and she will probably have to do nothing more than appear before a magistrate like herself and the local military authority, to clear up any misgivings.” He shrugged, and at the same time passed an ancient truck wheezing along under an enormous load of bok choy and onions.

“Could it be bad for her?” He folded his hands in his lap as he waited for the answer.

“If she did not have a good reputation, it might be,” Nigel said when he had thought it over. “But that isn’t the case. She isn’t part of any of the radical groups, she hasn’t participated in any of the demonstrations in support of Eastern European independence or democracy, so there is nothing to cause her difficulties.” His eyes glittered. “She is a very proper person, this Zhuang Renxin. She is modest and firm and reliable. How could she be regarded as dangerous?”

“Talking to me might give her that appearance,” said Mendosa uneasily.

“You have already answered to the army, and you have a witness with you. I think she’ll be safe.” Nigel increased his speed. “This is faster than we are supposed to go, but on this stretch, who is there to stop us?”

“No Highway Patrol?” Mendosa asked between amusement and surprise.

“Just the army, and they are the worst drivers of all,” said Nigel, pushing north and west.

* * *

To Clancy McEllton’s annoyance, his request to see his uncle was refused by the warder at the monastery entrance. “But I’ve come from London,” he complained to the aged monk.

The old man smiled sympathetically. “We come from everywhere, those who live within these walls.” He crossed himself and was about to turn away. “God be with you, my son.”

“But I’ve got to speak with him. It’s urgent. It’s important. What can I do to apply for an interview with Uncle Edward?” Clancy demanded, afraid that if the door was shut to him, he would not be able to talk it open again.

“Oh, there are no interviews here. We’re Camaldolese here, cenobites, and most of our Brothers take vows of silence, like the Trappists, as well as of poverty and chastity. And,” he added pointedly, “obedience. Prior Luccio maintains the Rule of Order here, and we each accept his authority.”

Clancy McEllton glowered. “In other words, if I want to talk to my Uncle Edward, I have to go through Prior Luccio, is that it?” He knew it would not help him to become angry, but it was almost too much effort to keep his temper. He was so close, and there was so much money to be had.

“If Prior Luccio permits you to speak with Father McEllton, it is satisfactory. But if Prior Luccio does not give his permission, then I’m afraid—” He lifted his hands to show the limits of his power.

“How do I arrange to talk to this Prior Luccio?” Clancy inquired, unable to keep the urgency out of his voice. “It is important, Brother. If it weren’t, I would not have come here.”

The warder lowered his eyes. “I will inform Prior Luccio that you wish to visit again and speak with your Uncle Edward, and I will see that he has your written request, as well. He will give it his prayerful consideration. If he thinks your request has merit, he will inform Brother Edward McEllton that you have asked to see him, and if both Prior Luccio and Brother Edward McEllton agree to it, you will be given leave to interview your uncle.” He sketched a blessing in Clancy’s direction. “I cannot do more than this.”

“But Prior Luccio—” Clancy began.

“He will read a letter from you. I will be pleased to deliver such a letter myself if you will come tomorrow and give it to me.” The warder had almost closed the gate again.

“Why not now?” Clancy demanded, then softened his tone. “It’s very important, Brother, or I would not persist.”

The old monk thought it over. “If you will bring a letter tomorrow, I will myself hand it to the Prior. Today it would not be possible. The Prior is keeping an altar vigil, and he sees no one until he breaks his fast tomorrow morning.” The gate was open only a few inches now. “Tomorrow morning, Mister McEllton. That would be best.”

“Thank you, Brother,” said Clancy with as much reverence as he could force into his voice. What he wanted to do was shove the gate open, clobber the old fool, get rid of Prior Luccio, and find his uncle. He made himself look up at the imposing white walls of the monastery, and then fold his hands as if in prayer before starting down the long path to the small parking area.

* * *

Only Dominique, Cardinal Hetre was in the library alcove when Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung finally came through the door, his satin cassock whispering around his very correct dark shoes.

“Good evening, Eminence,” said Cardinal Jung with the meticulous politeness he reserved for those he loathed.

“Good evening,” said Cardinal Hetre, thinking he ought to have taken a fourth aspirin before coming to this meeting; he could already feel the pressure in his temples. How much would he have to endure before their discussion was over, he asked himself.

“I appreciate your coming here. To be direct, I am a little surprised that you agreed. I know that neither of us is inclined to assist the other except as it aids the Church,” Cardinal Jung said smoothly as he chose the largest chair in the alcove. He folded his hands in his lap and regarded Cardinal Hetre closely. “You favor Gemme and Cadini, don’t you, instead of those of us who are not as quick as you are to turn away from our traditions.”

“In the past nobles have ridden into our churches on horseback with their scabbards empty as a gesture of piety. Our traditions, as you call them, have caused us to be unable to function well in this modern time. What have our traditions to do with our current predicament, except the tradition that the College of Cardinals elects the Pope?” Cardinal Hetre could not conceal his curiosity, though he hated to admit the wily, pompous Swiss had caught his interest.

“Tradition is the very core of faith,” said Cardinal Jung.

“I thought the Trinity was the core of faith,” said Cardinal Hetre, pleased he had been able to parry Cardinal Jung so deftly while his head was so sore. “God, Son and Holy Spirit.”

“Not all Catholics are theologians, and for them we must have traditions, so that they can be sure of the strength of their Church and all it teaches.” Cardinal Jung looked around the shelves with their precious collection of seventeenth and eighteenth century books. “As any one of these will remind you.”

“Truly?” Cardinal Hetre inquired, deciding to press what he hoped was his advantage. “That is an odd observation, Your Eminence, if you will permit me to remark on it, for most of these books, had they been written three centuries before the time they were, would surely have sent their authors to the stake for heresy. These books are monuments to the end of the rule of zealotry and the beginning of understanding.”

“We won’t agree on that, so let us not be distracted,” said Cardinal Jung. “What troubles me now, and must trouble you as well, is the continuing impotence of the conclave. We have done our part in recessing, but it is time we resumed our deliberations and agreed which of us is to be Pope.”

“Why?” Cardinal Hetre asked bluntly. “Because you are dissatisfied?”

“No,” said Cardinal Jung, but in such a tone that Cardinal Hetre knew he had touched a nerve. “No more than any other sincere Cardinal must be dissatisfied. As you recall, I did not approve of this adjournment when it was decided upon. I have not changed my opinion in any way. Like you, I know that we cannot continue without a Pope, because too many things require his voice and approval. Therefore, for the sake of Catholics all over the world, we must settle this once and for all.”

“Another week will not make so great a difference,” said Cardinal Hetre. “We gave it as your opinion that we would spend three weeks in recess. The second is up tomorrow, and there are only seven days after that. If you were to demand the conclave resume now, it would be four days at least before all the College of Cardinals could assemble again.” He put his hand to his head and felt sweat there.

Cardinal Jung sat very straight in his large chair, his round face rigid with disapproval. “All the more reason to act now,” he said, biting at the words as he spoke them. “We appear to be vacillating, which leads to doubts.”

“Whose doubts?” Cardinal Hetre asked, feeling bolder.

“Catholics!” Cardinal Jung exclaimed. “They seek our guidance. They need a Pope, not this wallowing in mysticism that has taken some of the Cardinals over. Don’t you see we’ve put ourselves in an untenable position, and the longer we remain there the less credibility we will have with our own people?” His face had darkened and he forced himself to be calmer. “If we want Catholics to accept the next Pope, we have to elect him without stopping in the middle for a quixotic quest. You’ve seen the television and read the papers—”

“Though neither are very traditional,” Cardinal Hetre murmured.

Cardinal Jung ignored the aside. “Everyone is speculating what kind of deal is being put together, and the more we delay, the stronger their suspicions grow. It looks too much as if we’re bargaining and playing politics.”

“Which never happens?” Cardinal Hetre ventured. “Your Eminence, look at our history. Politics have always been with us. I think the least political thing the College of Cardinals has done in the last two hundred years is to recess in order to learn more about this Chinese woman.” The last was difficult to speak, for he continued to be upset at the thought of her.

“That was the most political thing of all, pandering to the most gullible of our numbers, acting as if everything we have ever learned about reasonable faith was—” He snorted. “This is our opportunity to reassert our proper leadership and guidance of the Pontiff. It is in our power to have a Pope by the end of the week.”

“Really?” he thought of his fellow-Canadian, Victor, Cardinal Mnientek, who was in Winnipeg and had summoned all the Canadian Bishops and Archbishops to meet with him in four days, having already spent five days speaking with priests around the country. “Less than half the Cardinals are in Rome, Your Eminence. We cannot properly issue such a summons; there aren’t enough of us to override our vote of adjournment. If we made such an attempt, we would put the College of Cardinals in a much more questionable light than it is now.” He felt as if his headache was not quite so severe as it had been half an hour ago. Perhaps it would not be so intolerable after all. He wished for the luxury of rubbing his neck, but dared not show such human weakness to Cardinal Jung.

“Cardinal Tokuyu has agreed to come from Kyoto on twelve hours’ notice, Your Eminence,” Cardinal Jung declared. “If he is willing to do that, how can Cardinal Mnientek and the others not do the same?”

“Yes, but what of Jivin, Cardinal Tayibha? Will he come from India as quickly as Cardinal Tokuyu will come from Japan? Will Cardinal Nkomo leave Lagos? Will Cardinal Stevenson leave Melbourne? Will Cardinal Ygnacio leave Buenas Aires?” He flung the names at Cardinal Jung, deliberately choosing those Cardinals who would be least inclined to answer so high-handed an order. “We have agreed that it will be twenty-one days, and so it will.” He stood up, aware that he was speaking too loudly for their setting, and unable to care. “I ask you to forgive me, Eminence, but I fear that if I remain I will give you greater distress than I have already.” He started toward the door, his head feeling engulfed in heat.

Cardinal Jung fumed as he watched Cardinal Hetre depart. Their discussion had not gone the way he had wanted. Had he not been aware of his position, he would have damned Hetre for an arrogant fool. As it was, he promised himself he would pray that God send Hetre some realistic sense, since the Canadian was impervious to wisdom. His eye was caught by the book Hetre had been reading, which annoyed him afresh, being a large, new book on the Church, censorship, and art. Cardinal Jung seized the book and carried it off to the monitor of the section of the library where he demanded an explanation for its presence.

The young monk blinked at the irate Cardinal. “But it was Pope Urban’s policy, to purchase books critical of the Vatican and the Papacy, so that the Church could better answer her critics as well as learn from them. The College of Cardinals advised him to make such a provision—don’t you remember, Eminence?” He smiled tentatively, still confused, and thought it would have been better if someone else had been on duty that afternoon.

* * *

Cardinal Cadini’s great-niece was getting married; with a sigh he donned all his red finery and prepared to officiate, despite the fact that Santissimo Redentore accommodated no more than seventy people in its worn and squeaking pews. He was happy now that he had obtained permission from Celestine before he died, because this was an unusual office for him to celebrate, given his exalted rank. The wedding was a pleasure, as would be the three lectures he had agreed to give in Athens, Budapest, and Riga, all of which would keep him a safe distance from Rome until the conclave resumed. He had done his part for the adjournment and now he desired a little peace before word came from Cardinal Mendosa; he enjoyed giving lectures and knew he was very good at it.

A scrawny young deacon with a prominent adam’s apple assisted him, more trouble than he was worth, fussing and fluttering around the charismatic Cardinal. He recited the various prayers with Cardinal Cadini, his voice cracking from time to time. “The bride is most fortunate,” he said when Cardinal Cadini was almost ready.

“We are all fortunate when God shows us favor,” Vitale, Cardinal Cadini said quietly, wishing the deacon were less in awe of him. “God has been good to this family, for which we thank Him and praise Him. Lionella is as great a treasure from God as any of them.”

“They say it is a good match,” the deacon reported with a nervous cough. “She can be proud.”

“If she is satisfied that she has a man who will love her loyally and respect her for the rest of their lives, then it is a good match, no matter what else happens, or where his father was born.” The elaborate vestments he wore always seemed theatrical to him. He rubbed his fingers down the embroidered silk.

“Isn’t it proper for a bride to honor her husband, rather than the husband accommodate the bride?” asked the deacon, shocked at what Cardinal Cadini had said, for it countered what he had been taught most of his life.

He did not want to be drawn into yet another debate on marriage. “It may say so in our texts, but if there is no parity, I suspect the marriage will not be what God intended.” He looked toward the altar, recalling a time not so long past when even this mild an answer would have brought cries of protest from almost anyone in Orders. “Is everyone ready?”

Santissimo Redentore was a small church in an old village set in the dry folds of the Umbrian hills between Foligno and Assisi; in the last ten years new, aggressively modern apartment buildings had been going up less than ten minutes from the ninth-century gates. The old families watched the encroachment with cynicism and dismay. The priest who usually served at the altar had excused himself from the wedding ceremony. He claimed this was out of respect for Cardinal Cadini, but everyone knew that Padre Teobaldo Davinetto was staunchly conservative on all matters liturgical and regarded Cardinal Cadini as a dangerous and radical scoundrel.

Sparing no expense, Lionella’s family had filled the church with flowers and had imported a small, world-famous chorus that was known for their interpretations of Renaissance church music. As Cardinal Cadini knelt before the altar—the old-fashioned kind, where he could not face the congregation—he smiled at the sweet, sensual harmonies that blended with the scent of flowers.

Lionella and Remo made a handsome couple, Cardinal Cadini decided as he proceeded with the Nuptial Mass. Both bride and groom had that glossy finish of prosperity and favor, and both were surrounded by friends and family of the same sort. They were comfortable with their success, used to it, as confident as many much older families that they were entitled to good things. It amused Cardinal Cadini to remember that his grandfather had been a blacksmith who developed an interest only a century ago in what was then a new and questionable invention: the motorcar. From that beginning came machine tools, aircraft engines, and hydroelectric plants.

The couple saw the Cardinal smile, and misread the reason for it. Both assumed it expressed approval of them, and they took tremendous satisfaction in that assumption. Lionella was now convinced that she had done the right thing in asking her illustrious great-uncle to perform their wedding. Some of her nervousness faded.

Cardinal Cadini decided that there were too many flowers in the church; their odor was stronger and becoming cloying with sweetness. As a child he had suffered terribly from allergies, and a trip to a nursery or florist brought on agonies of sneezing and coughing and itching, with stuffy head and teary eyes. This time it struck him more as a tightness in the chest that made him feel slightly queasy. Asthma? he thought. At my age? He faltered, repeated himself and went on, promising himself he would lie down for a short while before the reception.

The blessings were pronounced, the bride and groom kissed and the wedding was over. Cardinal Cadini watched as his great-niece made her way triumphantly from Santissimo Redentore, her new husband gazing at her in joyous apprehension. He ought to join them shortly, he realized that, but he was not quite up to it. He had to catch his breath a little more, stop wheezing, then he would leave the church. He braced himself on the altar, shocking the two priests who had assisted him and the deacon. It was getting more difficult to breathe.

“Your Eminence?” said the deacon as he approached Cardinal Cadini. “They’re waiting.”

Cardinal Cadini nodded once, twice, and motioned the deacon away. He was panting now, but none of the air seemed to be reaching his lungs or his brain. He could hear the hurtful bray in his throat as he sought oxygen.

“Are you all right, Eminence?” the deacon persisted. “If you’ll forgive me for mentioning it, your color is pasty, and I—” He stopped as Cardinal Cadini collapsed.

* * *

All through the night he had seen the same thing, over and over: the luminous Asian face under the Papal tiara, and the light, preternatural light everywhere. A joy that was so intense it surpassed pain held him in that eternal moment when the world suffused with light, and when it faded from his sleeping sight he longed for it. Cardinal Mendosa woke earlier than his usual early hour, his body slick with sweat. He sponged himself off, drew on a simple dark robe and spent forty minutes on his knees praying, hoping that the things he had seen would vanish, would fracture or thaw or fade, or that the tremendous light would return. The images remained as they had been from the start, as sharp as the best photography. Only a dozen times in his life had he had visions, but each had been so specific, so utterly clear that it was unmistakable for dreaming, and of the dozen, this was far and away the clearest, most complete of all. It would be a simple thing to know in Hongya if this widow was the woman they were seeking: he would know the instant he saw her, as he had been seeing her face every night for months.

“You awake, Charles?” called Willie Foot from the hall. “We’ve got to get moving. Nigel wants to be off in half an hour. He’s arranging for breakfast.”

“Good,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he hurried to dress, pulling on his controversial cowboy boots just before he picked up his bag and left the room. He caught a glimpse of luminous green in the garden beyond the blind-covered windows, and for an instant wanted to have a walk through it, for the beauty and tranquility he always found in gardens.

“Charles?” Willie persisted.

He stepped into the hall, and replying in his broadest Texas accent, said, “Stop hollering, boy, before you bring the Comanches down on us,” and was relieved when Willie laughed.

* * *

Behind the reporter was a panorama of Saint Peter’s. In front of him, Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme listened to him courteously, then answered, “No, I don’t think Cardinal Cadini’s health will be an issue in the conclave when we resume in a week. From what I have been told, he will be sufficiently recovered by then to be able to attend all functions. Of course his physician will be constantly available, if it is necessary for him to receive any treatment.” In his dark street clothes, he looked very much like a successful industrialist; he wore his Cardinal’s lapel pin discreetly.

Gordon Mennell looked to his other guest on the right side of the table. “Reverend Williamson, you have been highly critical of the Catholic Church for a number of years. With these recent developments, what is your view on the forthcoming resumption of the conclave?” Mennell’s smile, vulpine and smug, anticipated carnage.

Reverend Williamson was sleek with success and his manner was as gracious as a high-ticket jeweler. “I am certain,” he said, looking Mennell straight in the eye, “that Christians everywhere are aware that these proceedings are political in nature, as has been the case for centuries. I am certain,” he went on with a slight nod to the camera, “that all but the most blindly devout can see that the purpose of these delays is to permit the Cardinals to poll their Bishops and priests before resuming the conclave, in order to make the most publicly acceptable man Pope. And I am also certain,” he said, winding up for his main point, “that no matter what the choice of the College of Cardinals may be, the Christians of the world will recognize it for the political decision it is.” He turned to Cardinal Gemme with a smile as insincere as his teeth were white.

Cardinal Gemme could not match Reverend Williamson’s high gloss, but he was an experienced media hand in his own right; he remained unflustered. “I’m the first to agree that the Church has been influenced by politics; history is full of such incidents. Politics is the way of the world, and the Church operates in the world for the Glory of God. We have an obligation to respond to the needs of the world, as Our Lord commanded us to do. We Cardinals would not be in a position to advise the Pope—this Pope—if we were not aware of politics, and if we made such an attempt our advice would not be well-considered. We are men, living in the world, but we are Cardinals for God’s Holy Roman Catholic Church: in matters of faith and the spirit, we are required by our holy vows to place God above all other considerations in our lives. With this new Pope, we are as newborn lambs.” He could see that Reverend Williamson wanted to interrupt, so he spoke more quickly. “When we meet in conclave, we, as men, consider the political implications of the election of the Pope. We would be irresponsible not to do so. Then we pray the Holy Spirit will reveal to us the one chosen by God to lead His Church. That is the very essence of our duty, not only to God, but to Catholics the world over, for if they are not guided by God’s choice, we have failed ourselves and them utterly.”

Ordinarily such a declaration would have swung the discussion in his favor, but Reverend Williamson was ready for him, and pounced. “You’re making some pretty big assumptions there, Your Eminence. You’re assuming that you, no matter how far you have risen in the Church, can know the wishes of God. That’s pride, Cardinal Gemme, plain and simple, thinking that you can know God. God is infinite, omnipotent, omniscient. What man is capable of knowing that, or aspiring to know it? In my church we preach personal experience of God, the rebirth in Christ promised in Scripture.”

Cardinal Gemme nodded. “Any man who is ordained knows that experience of God. That is the test, the way of determining that you are called of God. Those who enter Orders shape their entire lives to answering that call. There are others who depend on those who serve God to bring Him to them, so that they can reach Him. To see God in the face is the promise of Christianity.”

Reverend Williamson flashed his famous, pious smile. “Yes. Yes, it is what we are promised. And it is coming. He is coming.”

Before he could get launched on his theme, Gordon Mennell interrupted smoothly. “That comes to the heart of this discussion, gentlemen. With the millennium drawing to the close, what is the impact going to be on Christianity?”

“Impact?” Reverend Williamson thundered. “The return of Jesus will transform the world, and bring the Kingdom of God to men a last. The long reign of Satan and his worldly servants will be at an end, and those sinners who have revered him on earth will serve him in Hell for eternity. Those who have been redeemed will find the gates of Paradise open to them, and God will welcome them into His Kingdom. It will be the Last Judgment and all men will answer to God. How can you speak of impact, as if the Second Coming were nothing more than an automobile accident or a budget crisis? How can any Christian regard the end of the world only as ‘impact’?” He was sitting bolt upright in his chair; if it were not for the table he would have risen to his feet. “This is the culmination of our faith, the vindication of it!”

Cardinal Gemme leaned back deliberately. “And if it doesn’t happen, what then?”

Gordon Mennell stared at the French Cardinal, for the first time unable to think of the right thing to say.

“It must happen!” Reverend Williamson insisted. “It is promised in Scripture!”

Now Cardinal Gemme gave a wintery smile. “That is what they said at the end of the first millennium,” he pointed out. “Read the documents remaining from that time, and you will see that half the Christians of the world were prepared for the Wedding Supper of the Lamb. But one thousand A.D. came and went and it never happened. Why is the end of the second millennium any different than the first? Why must it be now that Christ returns? Because we need Him? We always need Him, every day of every year from His birth to the end of the world. But that’s the rub: Christ said He would return. But He did not specify a time.”

“It is foretold,” said Reverend Williamson sternly.

“Yes, it is,” Cardinal Gemme agreed with a pleasant suggestion of a smile. He watched Reverend Williamson as he regained his composure, then looked toward Gordon Mennell for another question.

Chapter 8

“They should reach Hongya by afternoon, probably after three,” the man reported to Dmitri Karodin. “They’ve had to detour around some road construction, and it is raining. If the weather had stayed clear, they would have been there by now.”

“I see,” said Karodin, pulling thoughtfully at his lower lip. He had sent two of his secretaries out of the office and disconnected his recorder, for he wanted nothing official to remain of this conversation. It was quite early in Moscow and the sun was valiantly striving to penetrate the dense high clouds which gathered over the city. “Has anyone attempted to contact them? Anyone at all?”

“Not that we have noticed. There is no mention of such attempts in any of the reports we have received.” He cleared his throat. “We have not had time to question those they have spoken with yet, but—”

“I am certain the People’s Republic would know if there had been such an attempt,” Karodin said, cutting him off. “What about the Chinese press? Mendosa is traveling with a reporter. Isn’t the press curious?”

“There has been no announcement,” said the man carefully. “And because this is not official, no one is being permitted to speak with Foot.” He hesitated. “If someone comes, I will have to hang up at once.”

“I understand,” said Karodin, who heard such warnings every time this man contacted him.

“It is dangerous, talking to you this way.”

Karodin did not want to spend precious seconds reassuring this frightened man. He took a sterner tone. “Have they made any stops?”

“Other than the necessary ones? No.” His contact was growing more tired and nervous. “The American has spoken to no one but those with him, and the English is always his translator. They say Foot speaks Chinese quite well, at least two dialects, possibly three. I should not be telling you so much.”

“Certainly you should; it is what you are employed to do,” said Karodin, a little bored at the man’s nervous greed which increased with every phone call. “You have the scrambler on, haven’t you?”

“They monitor for scrambled signals,” said the man. “Especially those of us in—”

“If you were not on Premier Zuo’s staff you wouldn’t be much use to me,” Karodin reminded him sharply. “And you would not have the extra money you like to squander on sporting events. Dish antennae have enlarged all our horizons. Refresh my memory, will you? How much did you lose on last year’s Super Bowl International?”

There was silence on the line, then the man cleared his throat. “I must have more for this. The risk I am taking—”

“You are in more danger from international bookies than you are from Premier Zuo, or the police, my friend,” said Karodin gently. “But I will increase the payment by ten percent this time—mark me: this time—because of the urgency of the request.” He coughed delicately. “Do you have anything else to tell me? Otherwise I suggest we terminate this call to minimize your risk.”

“So far as I know,” said the man quickly, “no one has informed Magistrate Zhuang of her coming guests. The Premier has said that he does not wish to influence her decision. He also does not want to recognize the Church.”

“Which also means he does not intend to complicate the situation. Very wise. I have great admiration for your Zuo Nangkao. He is handling this with great skill. Perhaps he will never have to admit it happened.” Karodin’s smile was open and charming, though no one saw it.

“But he is handling nothing,” the man protested, his voice rising.

“Yes,” said Karodin. “Precisely.”

* * *

Vitale, Cardinal Cadini sat in the hospital solarium, a blanket across his legs, his reading glasses perched on his nose. He was frowning over a murder mystery when the door opened and Piet, Cardinal van Hooven stepped into the sunroom.

“Do I intrude?” asked the Dutch Cardinal. He was in a dark suit with a Roman collar, having the appearance of a parish priest visiting Italy.

“Of course not, my friend.” Cardinal Cadini folded down the corner of the page, glancing at the bibliophile Cardinal van Hooven. “It’s a paperback, Piet.”

“It’s a book, Vitale,” said Cardinal van Hooven patiently. “How are you feeling?”

“Well enough to have figured out who the murderer is on page seventy-eight. I must be getting better.” His eyes smiled more than his mouth. “When they were giving me Extreme Unction, I found I could be frightened. I suppose I’ll have to confess the fear. I never thought I could be afraid of something so normal as dying.” He shifted in his chair. “Well, what is it? If you wanted to know about my health, you would have telephoned, as the others have. A few, I suspect, are sorry to hear I’m improving.”

“Oh, I would visit you in any case,” said Cardinal van Hooven mildly. “But you are right. I do have something to discuss with you.”

“And that is?” The keenness was coming back into his eyes now, a look that many had learned to respect over the years. “Come on. Out with it. Something is bothering you.”

It took Cardinal van Hooven a little time to answer. “I suppose I shouldn’t bother you with this yet. Your physician would not approve. But you have said you do not want to be left out, so I will ignore my better judgment: some of our fellow-Princes are getting restive again.”

“Let me guess—Cardinal Jung and his cronies.” Cardinal Cadini laughed, but the sound quickly turned to a hacking cough, then stopped altogether. He put one hand to his chest as if helping his lungs to work. “Pardon me. I haven’t recovered quite enough for laughing.”

“Do you need anything? Shall I summon the nurse?” Cardinal van Hooven asked, his concerned expression magnified by his thick glasses.

“No, of course not.” He took a deep breath and let it out very slowly. “There. Better.”

Beyond the glass the Roman sky appeared brilliant blue. “You can’t see the smog from here,” Cardinal van Hooven observed. “And yes, you are right about Sylvestre Jung. He is determined to prevent this woman from coming to Rome for any reason whatsoever. You know how fixed he becomes once he has taken a notion into his head. He has sent the United Nations Nuncio to explain the problems to the Secretary General.”

“Oh, God and the angels!” Cardinal Cadini swore without apology. “He’s going to scuttle the project. And by what authority does Jung send the Nuncio anywhere? The Nuncio serves the Pope, and we don’t have one just now. If the plan succeeds, then we might…but now? What can Gunnar Hvolsvollur do for us at this stage? The man’s an Icelandic Lutheran, and the United Nations can’t rule in.… We may need them later, but not now.”

“As we have agreed,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “But Cardinal Jung has changed his mind.”

“If he were not another Cardinal, I would be tempted to ask ‘What mind?’ but, under the circumstances, I won’t. He is my dear brother in Christ no matter how much of a pig-headed fool he is. How did he ever end up.… No, don’t tell me. I remember. John-Paul II felt he would help stabilize things in Switzerland with the Protestants, and he had so many years of service. He was a known quantity. Yes, yes, yes. And he advanced during the reign of Paul VI; we both saw him do it.” He stared out the window as he gathered his thoughts. “No, you don’t see the smog from here.”

“He wants to end the recess and have our election by the end of the week. He is pressing for it with great determination. He has said we can agree in advance, now that we understand how unacceptable the alternative is.” He said it directly, watching Cardinal Cadini as he spoke.

“Gia,” said Cardinal Cadini, that single Italian word expressing everything from this is crazy to right to what else is new?

“And now that she may be found, this Chinese woman, there are many of the College of Cardinals who are wavering.” Cardinal van Hooven looked down at his hands. “Some of us remain firm, but not all.”

“I see,” said Cardinal Cadini. “How many are wavering, do you know?”

“A dozen, perhaps more. Cardinal Pingari is one of them, and Cardinal Fiorivi is another. Cardinal Lepescu has refused to commit himself” He paused. “And the news is threatening the whole recess as a media event. Some of the speculations in the news is very damaging, such as the suggestion that the election is the result of diabolical intervention, or that the College is demanding bribes to influence the various candidates, as if we were a Parliament. I think these accusations and innuendos, as much as other doubts, have taken a toll on us all.”

“Do you mean me? Do you think I succumbed to the pressure?” Cardinal Cadini asked, not needing an answer. “No, this was not stress, not that kind.” Something shifted in his eyes and his features softened. “It wasn’t that at all, Piet. It was a warning. God is…losing patience with us. We are failing Him. He has made His will known and we don’t like it, and like children we try to foist a counterfeit off on Him. My seizure was a rebuke for all of us; I know this as surely as I know liturgy. That Chinese peasant woman is the one God has chosen, and the one God will have, College of Cardinals be damned, and I mean that literally. The only reason I didn’t die was that I recognized the warning for what it was.” His face changed as he glanced at Cardinal van Hooven. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I believe that you believe what you’re telling me,” said the Dutch Cardinal, who was also a psychiatrist.

“Very clever,” Cardinal Cadini approved, then grew solemn once again. “But that is what it was. We can elect another Cardinal Pope and that man will be a dead man. Cardinal Jung can say what he likes, but that changes nothing. If we do not elevate this woman, we defy the Holy Spirit.”

“You’ll never convince Cardinal Jung of that,” Cardinal van Hooven remarked.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Cardinal Cadini asked. “Madre d’Iddio, I wish Charles would find her for us.” He faltered, but not because of his health. “Has he? Do you know?”

“There has been no word from him,” said Cardinal van Hooven cautiously.

“But?” Cardinal Cadini prodded.

Cardinal van Hooven gestured to show he was not responsible. “There has been a message from China, to Metropolitan Gosteshenko, who was gracious enough to phone me about it.” He got up and walked away from Cardinal Cadini, so that he could look down on the hospital gardens. “Our Texan friend is nearly there, Vitale. He slept in Chongqing last night—or tonight, because of the change of dates.”

“When is he expected to arrive in Hongya?” asked Cardinal Cadini.

“Tonight. Late this afternoon. Tomorrow afternoon.” The time confusion gave Cardinal van Hooven an excuse to laugh. “When you wake up in the morning he will have met her.”

“Assuming he is permitted to speak to her at all,” said Cardinal Cadini softly. “That is what has been troubling me since I came out from under the anesthetic: that Cardinal Mendosa would not be allowed to speak to this woman. It is possible for him to go all that way and still not be able to find her. How can we do what we must do if he is not able to reach her?” His hands locked; it was the only sign of his agitation.

“He’s got to Chongqing,” Cardinal van Hooven said. “If he’s that close, he’ll find a way. He’s always joking how you have to be stubborn to live in Texas. He will find a way.” This last was a promise.

“That’s what I pray for,” said Cardinal Cadini, adding whimsically, “And I really do pray for it, not the way I say all the other rote prayers. They’re so familiar that I can’t do them any other way. I suppose Cardinal Tayibha would say that they are mantras now, and he might well be right.” He achieved a half-smile. “But when I pray I may see that Chinese peasant woman, I pray like a devout eighteen-year-old, full of passion and fervor and lack of experience.”

Cardinal van Hooven looked from the garden back to Cardinal Cadini. “God will hear you. But sometimes God says no.”

Cardinal Cadini opened his hands, palms up, to show his resignation to that. “But you know, Piet, I would like the opportunity to meet someone who is truly chosen of God. All the times we have met in conclave, all the discussions and bargaining we’ve done, I’ve always had a secret worry that we had lost track of God’s will in all the power and pomp. I have felt doubts, so many doubts.”

“All men with any sense doubt,” Cardinal van Hooven reminded him, as he had reminded so many others.

“But you see, it would be different with this woman. There would be no doubt.” His smile lasted longer this time, and came from a deeper place within him. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Piet, to truly have no doubts at all?”

* * *

At one end of the main street in Hongya workers in raingear were filling in potholes, slowing the light traffic to a lurching crawl. It was nearing four in the afternoon, and the small city was changing rhythm; the four o’clock shift was about to begin and people were hastening to their work even as others were going home.

“Do we know where we are going?” Mendosa asked testily as Nigel No inched their car past the female road repair crew.

“I know where to ask for her address,” said Nigel with unruffled good humor. He was enjoying himself hugely. “You are tired of sitting with your legs tucked up that way.”

“Yes,” said Mendosa, which was true, but only a partial reason for his brusqueness. “And forgive me for speaking to you that way.”

“It’s nothing,” said Nigel No, and cocked his head toward the back seat of the car where Willie Foot dozed. “You should do as he does and get some sleep. You look very tired, Charles.”

“I didn’t sleep too well last night,” Mendosa explained, making no mention of the visions that had filled his attempted rest.

“Strange beds; I’ve said it before. It is always difficult to sleep in strange beds.” The street was poorly maintained, so that it was not possible to increase speed very much once the road crew was behind them. Nigel No guided the car through the ruts and the rusted rails of an old streetcar track. “Up ahead? That is the…you would say city hall. I will learn the Magistrate Zhuang’s address from them, and get instructions to find the place.” He pulled to the side of the road and turned off the engine. “It might be best if you remain here. It will be quicker, in any case.”

“You mean you want me to stay in the car?” Mendosa asked. “I’d rather get out. I get antsy when I’ve been cooped up.”

Nigel No pursed his lips. “A foreigner, in a city like this, attracts much attention. You have said you do not wish to do this.”

In spite of himself Mendosa grinned. “You’re a real diplomatic son-of-a-bitch, No, and that’s the truth. All right, I’ll stay right here with my knees under my chin, and wait for you.” He gave a big sigh. “Don’t get wet.”

“I have an umbrella,” said No with a slight nod of his head. He slid out of the car and pulled the umbrella from under his seat. “I’m sorry, Charles, but I did not bring an extra one.”

“Get out of here,” Mendosa warned with a single laugh as Nigel No closed the door.

The sound wakened Willie Foot, who stretched as much as the limited space allowed. “Where are we?” he asked after a discreet yawn.

Mendosa could hardly contain his excitement. “Hongya. Nigel’s off to find out where Magistrate Zhuang lives.” He pointed in the direction of the building where No had gone, his eyes bright with anticipation.

“Hongya,” Willie repeated, his long face widening with a smile. “Well. Well. Well. ‘O ye of little faith’ or something of the sort.” He tried to find some way to ease his legs.

“Forget it,” Mendosa advised. “I’ve been trying for hours to fit into the seat without tying myself up like a pretzel. I guess there aren’t too many six-footers in China.” He folded his arms. “It’s times like these I wish I smoked. I’d have something to do other than sit and wait. Waiting drives me nuts.” He noticed that there were three half-grown youngsters standing by the car, one of them pointing at the strangers, the other two shocked and laughing at once.

Willie, too, noticed this, and rolled down the window, saying a few curt words, then rolled the window up again. “That should do the trick.”

“What did you say?” Mendosa asked, watching the youths depart with occasional backward, hostile looks.

“I said that if they continued to stare that they and all their children would live with turtles for twenty generations.” He took a deep breath to keep from yawning. “I don’t suppose they’re so indoctrinated to communism that they’ve left all their old ways behind.”

“And what is it about the turtles?” Mendosa asked; he was glad to have the distraction though he did not say so directly.

“They’re the lowest forms of animal, in the Chinese reckoning. It’s a pretty severe insult, probably the more so coming from a foreigner.” He rubbed his chin. “Think I need a shave before we look up Magistrate Zhuang?”

“Do I?” Mendosa asked, touching his face. He did not mind being out of Church uniform, but he did not want to appear in any way slovenly, especially not on this occasion.

“You’re fine. You could comb your hair, but—” He shrugged, reaching out to straighten his tie. “What’s proper clothes for a mission like this, anyway?”

“Who knows?” Mendosa asked, his nervousness increasing. What if she were not the woman he saw in his visions? What if she would not speak to them? What if she were the right woman but would not come with them? He rubbed his palms on his trousers. “No’d better hurry up.”

“Calm down, Charles.” He patted the Cardinal on the shoulder and wondered fleetingly what it would be like to have to call him Your Eminence once more. “We’re almost there.”

“Almost,” said Mendosa gloomily. “Where’s No?”

“With the windows steaming up like this, who knows?” Willie said. “Don’t clear them—you’ll draw attention to us.”

“Nigel already warned me.” He listened to the patter of the rain. “Is there some place here in Hongya we can stay? Was anything arranged about that?”

“For Heaven’s sake, Charles, calm down,” Willie told him. “You’re going to break into bits if you get much tighter.”

Mendosa accepted this without comment, recognizing it was true. He unfolded his arms and tried to shake out his hands, but the car was too small and he felt too silly. The correct thing to do, he reminded himself, was to pray, but for once the words were not there, and the traditional supplications did not give him the comfort they usually did. He sighed. “Nearly there,” he said so he could hear the words and perhaps believe them. “A few more minutes, and it’s done, one way or the other.”

“Let’s hope everything works out,” Willie reminded him.

The driver’s door swung open and Nigel No wrestled with his umbrella as he got into the car. “Well, are you ready?” he asked Mendosa without any preamble.

“Do you know where to find her?” Mendosa could hardly trust what he heard. “Did they tell you?”

“She’s a Magistrate, Charles. People go looking for her all the time.” He laughed as he started the car and got the defogger going. “You sure steamed up the place, didn’t you.”

“I guess we did,” said Mendosa, looking over his shoulder at Willie Foot. “How much longer, Nigel?”

“Ten minutes, fifteen at the most. Hang onto your hat. That’s the right way to say it, isn’t it?” He swung into the street behind a small tanker truck carrying heating oil. “We go out this road until we reach Red Blossom Road, where we go to the right. We go along Red Blossom Road until we reach the vegetable market, and we go left. Half a mile, where the road gets steeper, and we turn to the left again at…well, it’s a kind of volunteer fire station. Her house is toward the end of the street, against the hill, with a few others.” He recited this confidentially. “They said it would not take long to get there.”

“Will she be there?” Mendosa could not stop himself from asking.

“Well,” said Nigel No, “she runs her own farm, but it’s on the other side of the hill; in rain like this, she’s probably going to be having tea about now. Not very many people want to stay out in this kind of weather.” He started to hum the latest hit from Farris Willis and his Band, a disturbing ballad called After Last Night.

As they drove, Mendosa felt his tension and distress escalate. It was as if his skin were two sizes too small for his skull. The car, cramped to begin with, now seemed to be little more than a coffin with wheels. He felt knots forming in the muscles of his calves.

“You’re breathing very fast,” Nigel No observed. “You will get ahead of the fans.”

“Ease up, Charles,” Willie recommended. “You walk in like that and she’s going to think you’re there to murder her.”

“What?” The suggestion was so shocking that Mendosa actually tried to turn around in his little seat.

“Relax,” said Willie.

“Are you relaxed?” Mendosa demanded.

“Hell, no,” Willie replied. “But I’m just along for the ride. You have a job to do.”

“You have to talk for us. For me,” Mendosa said sharply. “You’re the most important part of the equation.”

“You mean the least important,” said Willie affably. “Yes, I know.”

“Without you, we can’t make it work.” Mendosa closed his eyes wishing he could recapture the impressions that had occupied so much of his sleeping hours. “Nigel could handle some of it, but if she is willing to leave China, we’ll need Willie to help us set.…” He stared out the window as the car turned onto Red Blossom Road. “They’ve been farming this land a long time.”

“Thousands of years,” said Nigel.

Mendosa lapsed into silence as he tried to massage the cramps from his legs. He could not keep his mind away from the meeting. Until now it had seemed to be unlikely that he would be successful; now he was almost at the door of Zhuang Renxin’s house.

“How far to the vegetable market?” Willie asked for him, then chided, “You’re worse than a six-year-old, Charles.”

“Not too far. Just at the edge of the town so that the farmers don’t have to come too far into the city and their customers don’t have to come too far from their houses.” Nigel pointed to a group of low, open-fronted buildings. “That will probably be the market.”

After the left turn, they began to leave the city behind. There were fewer apartment houses, and the number of buildings decreased as the land was given over to growing food instead of housing.

The volunteer fire station was little more than a large box with a slate roof and a steel door. A cubicle of a room was lit by a single bulb in the ceiling, and a man with a weathered face sat under it, a telephone at his elbow and a small black-and-white television holding his attention. A tall pole beside the building was topped by a sign, red-on-white.

“It says People’s Cooperative Fire Emergency Resources,” Willie told Mendosa. “Close enough for Volunteer Fire Department.”

The second left was behind them and they were on a gravel-topped road so full of deep ruts that the car swayed and lunged from one mud-puddle to the next. “Let’s hope we don’t get stuck,” Nigel said as the wheel was almost wrenched from his hands by the tires sliding into a long pothole. “Maybe you’d better pray, Charles.”

It was all Mendosa could do to keep from making a sharp retort, but he made himself say, “I’ve got other priorities right now, but I’ll throw in a word for the road if you like.”

“Hey, you’re the one who wants to get there. I’m just the driver,” Nigel reminded him, and swerved to avoid a particularly wide puddle. “What a way to get some exercise.”

There were four houses, partially stone-fronted, set back against the hill. A low row of narrow steps led to the porch of each of them.

“Do we know which one is hers?” Mendosa asked. Nigel pulled the car to the side of the road and tried to find a spot that would not bog them down when they left.

Nigel answered laconically. “I figure it’s the house with the sign saying Magistrate on the porchfront.”

Willie pointed it out. “That one, the third along. With the green shutters.” he pulled on a shapeless tweed hat, remarking with philosophical resignation, “Englishmen are supposed to be born with umbrellas. Mercy on our poor mothers. Mine—umbrella, and mother too, for that matter—is home in London.”

“Well, you’re one up on me,” said Mendosa, moving to open the door. “I don’t have an umbrella. Period. Besides, it’s just rain.”

Nigel said nothing, but opened his umbrella with a smirk. “After you, gentlemen.”

In the end it was Willie who went first, since he spoke Chinese and was Mendosa’s spokesman. Mendosa followed him and Nigel brought up the rear. They made a strange procession and would have attracted the notice of the entire farming neighborhood if it had not been raining. As it was, by the time they climbed the thirty-three steps to the porch, Willie and Mendosa were both quite wet and bedraggled. When Willie gained the shelter of the porch, he sneezed suddenly and voluptuously.

“Bless you,” said Mendosa automatically, then turned sharply as the doorlatch lifted. Good God, thought the Cardinal, are we going to announce ourselves with a sneeze? The idea horrified him: he wanted to go back down the steps, start again so that they would arrive with more dignity.

But now the door was open. The porch was dim and shadowed, but Mendosa would have recognized that face anywhere. He had not realized she was graceful, or that she stood five-foot-three at most. That was something I should have anticipated, he told himself. I paid attention to her face, not the rest of her. But that was hardly surprising: he had seen it every night for many weeks; he had seen it during the first conclave. He stood staring at her, awed that his vision was real, after all.

“Yes? What is it?” asked Zhuang Renxin, which Willie translated. She gave a short bow out of minimal politeness.

Mendosa had prepared a speech; he had rehearsed it several times. In it he had striven to make his statement eloquent and persuasive, filled with respect and confidence. He was determined to impress this woman with the importance of her destiny, and to show her that her elevation was, in fact, a necessary thing, a thing she would want to embrace. Now, when he faced Magistrate Zhuang, the words would not come. Words were facile and useless. Slowly he knelt. It was an effort not to reach for her hand, to kiss the Fisherman’s ring which she did not wear.

“What is the matter with that foreigner?” demanded Zhuang Renxin. Her jacket was thrown over her shoulders and with the chill of the wind hitting her, she pulled it more tightly around her.

“He is deeply impressed, and has forgot himself,” said Willie, far more to Mendosa than to Magistrate Zhuang. He then spoke directly to her. “Let me help you to understand, Magistrate. It is an urgent errand that brings him to you, and one that is important to many more persons than him. Please permit me to explain further. I am Fitzwilliam Foot. I am a British journalist, and I am serving as translator for my friend.” He looked down at Mendosa, saying in English, “Do, Charles, get up. She doesn’t appreciate what you’re doing. It smacks of the old Imperial days to her, and she won’t want any part of that.”

“Forgive me,” said Mendosa, looking directly at the woman. He knew every line in her face, the first frosting of grey in her hair, the tiny scar below her left eye, the little jade earrings she always wore. She was not pretty, her face being too well-used for that, but she was remarkably beautiful. “I meant no offence, Holiness.”

When Willie had translated all but the “Holiness”, he added, “This man is Charles Mendosa. He is an American from Texas.”

“I have heard of Texas,” said Magistrate Zhuang. “I have sometimes seen Dallas on television.”

“She said something about Dallas,” said Mendosa. “I got that much. Tell her I'm from Houston.”

Willie did as Mendosa ordered. “My friend has a pressing reason to speak with you, Magistrate Zhuang. He has come a very long way to meet you. Would it be possible for us to have a little of your time?”

The wind blustered about the house, booming against the roof. At the back of the house bamboo was beating on the walls, turning the house into a drum.

“Why would you want that?” She hesitated, but there was curiosity in her black eyes. She bowed once to Mendosa, who was brushing off his dark trousers. “If he has come so far, it would be most disrespectful of me not to hear him out.” With that, she opened her door. “Do me the honor of entering my house.”

As Mendosa crossed the threshold into a small entryway, he blessed himself, as if he were entering a church. His face was still, as if he did not want to disturb the air. “Tell her thank you for me, Willie, and make it the most sincere form you know.”

“Certainly, Your Eminence,” said Willie with a covert grin. He was beginning to regret he had promised not to write about this meeting unless Mendosa gave him a written release to do so. “Magistrate Zhuang, my friend wishes you to know he is grateful for your attention; he is much obliged to you for allowing him the opportunity to talk with you.”

“Is that true?” Magistrate Zhuang asked Nigel No.

“Yes, it is, Worthy Magistrate,” said Nigel at once.

Magistrate Zhuang indicated the double door on the other side of the entryway. Her manner was no-nonsense but cordial. “My office is here, gentlemen. There are chairs for everyone around the table. Will you please come in.”

“Thank her again, Willie,” said Mendosa.

When Willie had done this, Magistrate Zhuang made a gesture of dismissal. “It is not necessary to repeat. I accept your thanks. Now I would like to hear your pressing reason to speak with me.”

“It is difficult to explain,” said Mendosa, Willie translating.

She regarded Willie and Mendosa with curiosity. “What is the cause of the difficulty? Why would you come to far to see me if it is so difficult to tell me now you are here? Have you made the circumstances more difficult than necessary? If any Magistrate would do for your purpose, then your presence here is all the more puzzling.” She was handling this as she would deal with a dispute among neighbors. Her brows rose as she listened to Willie translate and waited for an answer.

“Get this one right for me, Willie,” said Mendosa before he addressed Magistrate Zhuang. “The difficulties do appear to be necessary. My errand is to you and no other. No other anywhere in the world will do, Holiness.”

“I’m not going to translate Holiness, not now and not ever,” Willie said to Mendosa. “It isn’t acceptable here.”

Magistrate Zhuang looked to Nigel No. “What are they saying? Speak the truth!”

Nigel glanced at Mendosa and shrugged. “He has called you Holiness twice, Worthy Magistrate, and Mister Foot is reluctant to translate, because he does not wish to offend you.”

“That is an incorrect thing, to call someone Holiness,” she declared, her expression stern. “If this is the difficulty you have mentioned, then I recommend that you do not use such an inappropriate title.”

Willie did his best to convey all this to Mendosa as quickly as he could, adding, “I warned you, Charles. Eminence.”

“Stop that,” said Mendosa, and addressed Magistrate Zhuang directly. “I call you Holiness because…because I am convinced you have been chosen to do a holy thing. It would be disrespectful of me to call you anything else but Holiness, or your current title, Worthy Magistrate. And,” he added to Willie, “don’t leave any of it out.”

“All right,” said Willie, and told Magistrate Zhuang what Mendosa had said. “My friend is an honest man, Worthy Magistrate. He does not dissemble often, and he is not dissembling now. He will not abuse your interest or your judgment.”

“Not knowingly,” Mendosa amended when Willie translated the last for him. “But Rome, well, it’s a snakepit. Tell her that, too.”

“Now?” Willie asked, not expecting an answer.

“Not quite yet. But she will have to know eventually,” said Mendosa. He looked at Magistrate Zhuang. “I ask your pardon for coming to you in this manner; we mean no disrespect to you or the task that you may decide to accept. There was no other way to reach you, not without much greater intrusions. Please do not confuse our mission with our appearance.”

When he finished translating, Willie said to Mendosa, “Brushing up your old Papal Nuncio skills, are you? You’re being quite the diplomat.”

“That was years ago,” said Mendosa, a bit irritated to have it brought up at so precarious a time. “It has nothing to do with now.”

“Except that you’re a Cardinal on a mission,” said Willie, and then turned to Magistrate Zhuang. “My friend is trying to find the best way to explain matters to you, Worthy Magistrate, and asks your understanding while we try to agree on how to tell you.”

“Is that so?” Magistrate Zhuang asked Nigel No.

“More or less,” Nigel answered. “It’s close enough.”

This satisfied her. With a gesture toward a number of low chairs, she offered, “If you will all sit down, I will bring tea.”

“Thank you,” said Willie for all of them.

Mendosa realized that she was about to serve him, and he said, “But it isn’t right. One of us should serve her.” He started toward Magistrate Zhuang, saying, “Holiness, Worthy Magistrate, it isn’t fitting. Tell me what you wish me to do and I will be pleased to serve you.”

She looked at him in mild alarm. “Tell this man that I am going to bring tea. I am not running away, or calling to inform the police he is here. Just tea.”

Willie was caught in confusion, trying to translate for both of them at once. Finally he said, “Charles, let her get the tea. This is her home and we are her guests. It is polite for her to do this, and if you prevent her, you will be rude. She doesn’t know why you’re here, or why you think she ought not to serve you. She doesn’t know who you are or who you think she is.”

Mendosa, chastened, held back. “All right. Yes. I see that. I’m sorry.” He had gone rather pale and when he sat down he was breathing fast again.

“Lucky thing you’re healthy,” Willie said when Mendosa had been quiet a short while. “You’re worse than someone with his finger in a lightsocket, Charles.”

“I certainly feel that way,” said Mendosa. “But that’s nothing.” He rubbed his forehead. “I can’t help it. You don’t know what this is like for me. You’re not Catholic.”

“Lapsed,” Willie reminded him, the wretched memories of his loss of faith coiling through his thoughts, then gone again.

“Before you were ten,” said Mendosa. “I know what the Jesuits say about having a child before seven, but it’s not always true.”

“It wasn’t in my case,” said Willie, who usually hated talking about his experiences of the Church. “I still like the Church, in a way.”

“Yes, as you like that dotty old aunt of yours in Northumberland, the one you can’t be sure whether she’s senile or just very eccentric.” Mendosa was not able to laugh, but a smile twitched his lips.

Willie acknowledged his effort. “Not bad for someone who’s close to fainting.”

“You’re too kind,” said Mendosa in a perfect Oxbridge accent.

Magistrate Zhuang came back into the room carrying a round lacquer tray with a teapot, cups, and a dish of dried plums and cookies. She set this down, then went about pouring the tea. “Some westerners like milk and sugar with their tea, but I’m afraid I do not have any.”

“This is fine, Worthy Magistrate,” said Willie. “You are most gracious to three weary foreigners.”

She handed a cup to Willie first, and then to Nigel No. “You understand, perhaps, that I am very curious about the reason you are here. I cannot imagine anyone coming so far to talk to a regional Magistrate.” She poured tea for Mendosa and watched him carefully as he took it. “Why does he look at me that way?”

“She wants to know why you’re staring, Charles,” said Willie, taking one of the dried plums, which he detested. Prunes were bad enough, but these Chinese versions were like desiccated bits of liver, one flaw in an otherwise perfect cuisine. “Make sure you taste some of everything,” he warned Mendosa. “You don’t want to be more rude.”

“I know about that,” said Charles, sipping his tea. “Worthy Magistrate,” he said, still staring. “I hope you will not mind, but I must ask you a few questions. I’ve come almost half-way around the world to ask them. Are you willing to answer them for me?”

“If it is possible,” she said when Willie had translated. “And if it is not possible, I will say no.” She did not smile but there was a softening of her eyes that Mendosa found more encouraging than anything else in her reception of them.

“Do you know about the Roman Catholic Church?” He waited to hear her answer.

“A terrible institution, for the oppression of the people and for their delusion. It is an institution of great, abusive power and wealth. The People’s Republic of China in its wisdom does not recognize that corrupt institution.” Her eyes had hardened once more.

“Yes,” said Mendosa when Willie was through. “I did reckon she wasn’t too fond of us; it’s the Party line. Still, in many ways, she’s right. You can tell her I said so.”

“Okay,” said Willie, and did.

“Why are you in China, if you are asking questions about this foreign and illegal institution?” she demanded before Mendosa could ask a second question.

“I am here,” Mendosa said very deliberately, “because I am an official of the Roman Catholic Church, a Cardinal, one of the highest ranks within the Church. And as a Cardinal, I have certain duties that compel me to seek you out.” There he thought, the first hurdle crossed. If he could get over this one, maybe the next would be easier.

“You represent a very unworthy institution,” said Magistrate Zhuang without apology, which Willie translated without varnish.

“It would be improper of me to agree, but I do think that oftentimes your opinion is the correct one. Much of what the Church has done is unworthy of its purpose,” said Mendosa, some of his worry turning wry. “Still, there are those of us who try to keep it from sinking into corruption completely. That is part of my sworn obligation as a Cardinal. The College of Cardinals elects the new Pope when one has died.”

“A cabal of venal old men!” Magistrate Zhuang’s eyes measured Mendosa critically, as if attempting to discern how much of this he was willing to take from her.

“That is certainly true,” said Mendosa, and found Willie’s consternation amusing. “The Catholic religion teaches that among its other gifts, the Holy Spirit inspires the election of the Pope, though most of the time it is politics and power, like most rich bureaucracies. However, once in a while, something happens.”

“The Holy Spirit is a myth used to coerce the people into obeying unjust laws and accepting debauched leaders,” said Magistrate Zhuang, but with less fervor than before.

“I won’t dispute that, most of the time,” said Mendosa. “The Holy Spirit has been used as the excuse for every barbarity and act of intolerance instigated by the Church since the Council of Nicea. But that, Worthy Magistrate, does not mean it does not exist.” His tea was growing cold; he set the cup aside and took one of the salty rice cookies while Willie spoke for him.

“Of course it does not exist,” said Magistrate Zhuang. She added more tea to his cup.

“Now there, Holiness, we disagree,” said Mendosa when he heard what she had said.

“If it is anything, it is a convenient fiction, something to render the unacceptable welcome.” She did not smile at him, but she waited with interest to hear his response. It was apparent that she enjoyed verbal fencing even with the clumsiness of a translator.

“Most of the time, probably so. But not always.” He drank the tea while Willie did his job, and then went on. “And whether you believe in the Holy Spirit or not, it seems to believe in you.”

When Willie translated this last, Magistrate Zhuang half-rose, her face darkening with emotion. “What despicable—”

“Willie,” said Mendosa, “tell her that I do not mean to offend her. Right now.” He remained still, his expression as sincere as before, though it was difficult not to react to her outburst.

“Please listen to him, Worthy Magistrate. He has come all this way, and he has put himself in great disfavor with many of the other Cardinals for doing this. What he is doing has caused him to lose face with some of his colleagues, but he is convinced that speaking with you is more important than their good opinion. It is his…piety”—what a strange word to use about Charles, Cardinal Mendosa, he thought as he said it, knowing it was accurate—“that brings him here.”

“How is coming here pious?” the Magistrate asked scornfully.

“It is because the Holy Spirit requires it of me,” said Mendosa quietly. “I believe in the Holy Spirit, Worthy Magistrate, and I am bound by my vows to act upon its mandate.”

“This is getting very dicey,” said Willie before translating.

“Only fools believe in such legends,” said Magistrate Zhuang.

“But you do believe in piety, in integrity, don’t you, Worthy Magistrate? You believe it is good conduct to keep vows made?” asked Mendosa, ignoring Willie’s pained expression.

“Integrity is a virtue. Constancy is a virtue,” she said, measuring her words now, as if she were expecting a trap. “Family piety is a virtue.”

“Then you understand why I am here,” Mendosa met her eyes and smiled, a very little smile.

“Yes,” she said when she had thought about it a moment. “I suppose I do. If I had made a vow, I would strive to keep it.” She touched the pot. “The tea is growing cool. Would any of you like more?”

All three declined, though Nigel No looked disappointed.

“Let me tell you what has happened. You will be one of less than a dozen people outside the College of Cardinals who know this, Worthy Magistrate. Listen to me, please.” Mendosa turned to Willie. “Do your very best.”

When Willie was through, Magistrate Zhuang said, “Why should you tell me this thing, if it is so secret?”

“Because it concerns you.” He saw her falter as Willie translated. “Pope Celestine died not long ago, after a very brief reign. He ought never to have been elevated; he was a compromise. You may say that is nothing new, and that’s right. But you see, it was not only a compromise among the Cardinals, it was a compromise with the Holy Spirit.”

Magistrate Zhuang listened, patently doubting every word. “How can you be certain of that?”

“Because, Holiness, when each Cardinal wrote the name of the one we each believed, in our souls, was the one the Holy Spirit wanted for Pope, something inexplicable happened. Every single one of us wrote your name.” He did not balk as he said this; he looked her directly in the eyes. “Every one of us.”

“That’s…ridiculous ,” said Magistrate Zhuang, but her face was white and the words were a whisper.

“And when Celestine died, we met in conclave—technically we are still in conclave—and we all wrote your name a second time.” He was quite calm now, caught in a certainty that restored him.

Magistrate Zhuang frowned. “Absurd!” she cried out, and then she started to laugh. “How clever. You are very persuasive, you American.” Her laughter increased. “I was nearly prepared to believe you.” There were tears at the corners of her eyes and she rocked where she sat. “Amazing, amazing,” she said between more bursts.

“You’re losing her,” Willie added when he had relayed all this to Mendosa.

“No kidding.” Mendosa could hardly move. It took a great effort for him to continue evenly, neither irate nor surly in manner. “It is no joke. It is the truth. Twice the College of Cardinals of the Roman Catholic Church have elected her Pope. Twice! Tell her that, Willie.” He wanted to shout at her, to shake her so that she would not laugh any more, so that she would know he had spoken the truth. What made it terrible for him was the certainty that this woman was the one he had seen in his visions, the Pope mandated by the Holy Spirit. “She has to serve, since we elected her twice.”

Willie responded at once, adding his own observation. “Worthy Magistrate, what my friend says may seem ridiculous, but I assure you that it is the truth, a dangerous truth for everyone, you as well as Cardinal Mendosa and me. Without your cooperation, there are millions of people in the world who will be without guidance when they need it most, and that most especially includes those in religious Orders. You do not share Cardinal Mendosa’s religion, but you can appreciate how important good rule is to people, and how conduct must be guided by wisdom. He is asking you to consider making yourself an example, as you do here as Magistrate. Those who practice that religion, if they are guided by those who do not teach wisely, will fail. Never mind the Church, it is the people who follow its teaching who are in danger. Without wisdom—which they call the Holy Spirit—they will lose their way. They will be at the mercy of a Church that is not always responsi—”

“Such guidance is corrupt; you admit it,” she said, bringing herself under control. She looked at her three visitors in turn, her voice still not quite steady. “How remarkable. I don’t think I’ve laughed like that since I was a child.” She wiped the tears from her face. “Excuse me. I did not.…” It was touch and go for another round of laughter, but finally she stilled the impulse.

“I did not come to amuse you, Holiness,” said Mendosa, his face set. “Without you the Church is a fraud. Worse than a fraud. No one else can be elevated without deliberate misrepresentation and total denial of the will of the Holy Spirit. There is a…law in the Church, that if someone is elected Pope once, he…or she, has the option to refuse, and someone else may be elected. But when someone is elected twice, that person must serve. Any subsequent election without the service of the person elected twice is not valid. The Succession is broken. We tried to put someone else on Saint Peter’s Throne, and the man we chose died quickly. If we do it again, another man will die, and undoubtedly we will elect you again a third time. With you—for reasons none of us knows—there is a chance to regain what we will have lost if we choose another in your place.” He leaned forward. “I’ve got one last thing to say to you, Worthy Magistrate, and then I’ll get out of your house if you like. We’ve trespassed on your goodwill too long, and we won’t continue.” He listened to Willie turning what he had said into Chinese.

“All right: what is this thing?” Magistrate Zhuang asked, doing her best to be polite.

It was the final argument, and he hoped it would be sufficient. “You say that you think the Church is deceptive and corrupt, and I largely agree with you. You tell me that the Church has advocated oppression, and I agree with you there, too. You say that the Church is rich and venal, and there I concur completely. The Church is all those despicable things and more.” He put one hand on the low table and held her eyes with his own. “And only the Pope, Worthy Magistrate, can change that.”

Chapter 9

Shortly before dawn a telephone call on his private line woke Zuo Nangkao in his Beijing home. He moved away from his sleeping wife and lifted the receiver.

In Hongya the monitor from the People’s Cooperative Fire Emergency Resources peered over his notes. “I took pictures and—”

“Do you know what was said?” Premier Zuo interrupted, aware that his field agent was good at his job. “Could you get close enough?”

“No, but they talked well into the night. Magistrate Zhuang made sure there was a chaperon, of course. She is a very prudent woman.” He cleared his throat and lit another cigarette. “The driver left for a while in the evening and returned with food.”

“There are places in Hongya where he must have gone,” said Premier Zuo, unwilling to be drawn into useless speculation. “What more can you tell me?”

“The foreigners are going to sleep at her neighbor’s house. They are supposed to leave in the morning. Probably not too early because they were up so very late.” He chuckled unpleasantly. “If the Magistrate is dealing with the West, she is being very foolish.”

“Magistrate Zhuang, for all I have learned of her, is no fool,” Premier Zuo said, the warning clear. “I have to know what they said to her. And I want it confirmed that the American is an official of the Catholic Church.” He reached over and picked up his glasses, settling them onto his nose and watching the world come into focus.

“That is being tended to,” said the monitor. “There are others better qualified than I to discover that.”

“Very true,” said Premier Zuo. “If he is here as an American, that is one thing, but if he is here as a Cardinal, it’s something else.” He thought that he had been ill-advised to ignore the reports of the Vatican wanting to locate this Chinese Magistrate. Ludicrous as they seemed a few days ago, the reports might turn out to be accurate. “I want to know when the foreigners leave and where they go. They ought not to be aware they are under observation. Do not use the arms convoy again, for that will make them suspicious.”

“As you wish, Worthy Premier.” The Monitor’s voice was rougher, from fatigue, or cigarettes, or displeasure, Premier Zuo was uncertain.

“Thank you, my trusted servant,” answered the Premier of China, thinking that he might as well get up, for he would not be able to get back to sleep before it would be time to rise.

“I will report again when they have gone,” said the monitor.

“On the line to my private office, if you please. Sun Tienxiao will speak with you if I am not available.” He slid from under the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Learn what you can from the neighbors, but do not be too obvious about it.”

“I know the way,” said the monitor, faintly annoyed that his skill should be questioned. “I’ve already contacted Chongqing, so that they will be covered. I wasn’t able to reach the telephone in Magistrate Zhuang’s house. If there were calls made.…”

“There will be a record of them; you need not concern yourself,” said Premier Zuo, reaching for his robe. “I did not expect the Magistrate to speak with them so long or I would have asked for a few listening devices to be installed before they arrived. But there is no point in being concerned with that now.” He smiled to himself in the pre-dawn gloom. “You have done well. I will add a commendation to your file, so when Sun reviews it, you will be promoted.”

“And some other operative can sit in this concrete block,” said the monitor bitterly. “Waiting for things to happen in Hongya.”

“Of course,” said Premier Zuo in a tone of voice that did not permit more discontent from the monitor. “All men who do their work well advance, Gai Ruwei, even if it’s from the pigpen to the palace.” As he said it, he remembered his grandmother repeating it to him through his youth, and he thought she would take his advancement as proof of the saying.

Monitor Gai knew it was sensible to laugh, so he produced a single, insincere cackle. “True enough,” he said, and yawned.

“Yes, you need your rest after so much work,” said Premier Zuo, who was not deceived by the ploy. “My commendation will be entered in your file today. Keep me informed.”

“Most certainly,” said Monitor Gai, hoping that Sun Tienxiao would not attempt to claim the work for himself. He heard the Premier hang up before he lowered the receiver. His head felt stuffy and he thought too slowly. Surely, he thought, the same is true of Magistrate Zhuang and the foreigners. Confident that nothing more of interest could happen before sunrise, he went off to bed.

* * *

In the dim light, Willie fought off dozing as Magistrate Zhuang and Cardinal Mendosa continued their discussions.

“I am not saying it would be easy, or that these men will accept you,” Mendosa told her emphatically. “If it were that easy there would be no reason to come all the way to China to find a candidate for the job. Sorry. The fact is that you are not the most welcome Pope the College has ever elected, and the Cardinals resent how it came about. You were…foisted on them by an experience they do not and can not understand. These men are used to being masters of the Church; they despise interference, even from God. Most of them will resist you with all their might. I don’t want you to think otherwise. You’d be leaving yourself open for some pretty terrible trouble if you don’t prepare yourself.”

Magistrate Zhuang listened critically. “But why should it be necessary? If the Holy Spirit—assuming for the time being that such a thing exists—has named me, what possible objection can any of these men have, if they are truly servants of the Church?”

Willie watched Mendosa with interest, wondering what kind of answer the Texan would give. “It’s quite a challenge for such an hour.”

“Shut up, Willie,” said Mendosa cordially. “Tell her that there are men who have advanced through favor and power-brokering who have no more knowledge of the Holy Spirit than a gnat. They seek their own advancement and would not want to see it given to anyone but themselves, or their close colleagues.”

“It is ever this way,” said Magistrate Zhuang, and cocked her head as she thought. “What of the Holy Spirit, then? You said that all these men wrote my name, that all of them did it, although only a few knew that they were writing Chinese. I find that last hardest to believe.” She was looking tired, and there was a tightness at the corners of her eyes that warned Mendosa she would not rest until she was satisfied that she had the answers she sought.

“They found it hard to believe, too,” said Mendosa with a disappointed smirk. “Some of them thought it was sabotage, or trickery. A few of them suspected other Cardinals of influencing them with drugs or hypnosis. You should have been there to see the reaction the first time. I was as bad as most of them, I’m sorry to say. It was a great shock to all of us.”

“How was it a shock?” she demanded.

Willie yawned but offered no apology for it. He continued to translate, his voice a monotone.

“I tell you again, these are men who love power, Worthy Magistrate, and they are not used to having it taken from them. Even if the loss is brought about by the force they purport to serve, they dislike it. They have their will and they do not like anyone to dispute their right to exercise it. Some of them have tried to claim that they did not know what they were doing, or that they were being influenced somehow. As I’ve told you, there are others who say it was a mistake and will not concede that they might have experienced the presence of God.” He crossed himself out of habit. “You would find yourself having to be very careful, for all these men will want to control what you do.”

“And you, Cardinal Mendosa, what about you? Are you here in the hope that you will control me?” Her eyes narrowed as she listened to Willie translate his answer.

“I would like to think that my dedication to your Papacy would mean you might trust me a little, but I don’t expect it. Frankly, Holiness, I haven’t done anything to earn it, and you’re not the sort to accept my assurance without anything to back it up. I suppose it would not be wise of you to trust me unless you are satisfied that I am trustworthy. You see, Worthy Magistrate, I am an oddity among my exalted colleagues. I am still very much a believer; not many Cardinals are, not really. I am convinced that God is present in the world; I think that God is part of every human being on this poor old planet. And I think that God seeks to reach every single one of us. But most of the time people need a structure, a frame of reference, to allow them to pay attention to God. That’s where the Church and the Pope come in, and that’s what I have come to accept that they’re good for.” He wanted to tell her the rest, to describe the visions and his long experience of them, but he held his tongue.

“But even supposing that this is the case,” said Zhuang Renxin when Willie was through, “why should God select me when he has men such as you to choose from? You—by which I mean all the Cardinals—are prepared to deal with the pressures of the Papacy. Why should you need me? It is beyond caprice, Mendosa.” Her face was stern again, but as she concealed what was probably a yawn, her expression softened.

“God is beyond all understanding. That’s part of the teaching of the Church. It’s a part that we clergy all too often forget.” He was tired of drinking tea and he had declined the rice wine offered earlier, but now his throat was dry and he wished he had something to soothe it. He coughed once. “I’ll tell you what I think might be the reason why you were the choice of the Holy Spirit, but you had best keep in mind that it is only a guess.”

She heard Willie out and said. “I want to hear this, but I will have Missus Jing make us some tea.”

“She’s asleep,” Willie pointed out.

“It will do her good to be up,” said Magistrate Zhuang. “She will keep the rest of the country awake with her tales of this visit for months to come, if I know her as well as I think I do.” She motioned to Willie. “Have her make us tea.”

Willie shrugged, and found his way into the hall, then toward the first bedroom, calling to Missus Jing as he went. He hoped he would not awaken Nigel No; he wanted their driver rested for the long trek back to Chongqing.

Missus Jing was over fifty and genial. She heard this request with great good humor and told Willie that she would get to work at once, adding that she thought Magistrate Zhuang was a wise woman to make the most of this remarkable and unprecendented visit.

“You’re probably right,” said Willie, and went back to the office where he found Mendosa and Zhuang Renxin staring at each other with that determined look of people who share no common language but are nonetheless determined to make themselves understood. “Tea in a few minutes,” he said, as much for Missus Jing as for himself.

“Good,” said Magistrate Zhuang. “Now, tell Mendosa to continue. I want to hear this.”

Mendosa pursed his lips, then launched on his attempt at explanation. “You see, it has always been men who ruled the Church, from the first. There have been a few women who were noted for their holiness, but not in the same way men were. They were never given the opportunity to take part in the governing of the Church, and they were never allowed to oppose the hierarchy and remain within the Church, not even as penitents.” He paused to let Willie catch up with him. “All Christian women know this, to a greater or lesser extent. They are used to a teaching that places them second, so even if the Holy Spirit should advance a capable and strong-willed Christian woman, she would still be held accountable to the demands of men. And she would probably comply, no matter what she might believe in her heart, because it is what she was taught all her life. There would be the authority of the Church to wield against her. No matter what her conscience said, her training would bend her, and the men would use her for their own ends.” Again he let Willie translate. “So electing a Christian woman, Catholic or Baptist or Unitarian, for that matter, would probably not mean very much. Certainly there would be few changes within the Church; there would probably be a general backlash against women, as there was in the eighties against the feminism of the seventies in America.”

Willie translated this, and looked toward Mendosa. “That about sums up the problem, I’d agree.”

“Exactly.” Mendosa leaned back and turned to face the Magistrate. “But you are not a Christian woman, and you have not been taught Christian rules from the time of your birth. Oh, I know that China is not always a place of enlightenment for females, but I recall that there have been times when the oldest surviving female was made head of the clan, so the exercise of authority over males is not unknown in the heritage of China. And the methods of Christian manipulation are not familiar to you.” He saw that she was startled at his remarks as Willie translated them. “I’m not a complete ignoramus, Worthy Magistrate. I do know a few things about how the rest of the world operates.”

“I have been guilty of making assumptions about you, Mendosa,” she said through Willie. “I ask your pardon.”

“I’ve had a few assumptions about you, too, Holiness,” he said seriously. “Anyway, that’s probably just what the Holy Spirit thought you could accomplish, if you will forgive my pride in assuming I can second-guess the Holy Spirit about this. You can look at the Church without blinders. You can see our mistakes that we cannot see because we’re too close, or too caught up in it to be able to act.” He waited for Willie once more. “And you will not be awed by these men, or bullied by them. You will see what it is we must do to make the Church what God intended it to be, and which it very rarely is now.”

“Do you think any single person could do such a thing?” asked Magistrate Zhuang as Missus Jing came in with fresh tea and some hot pork rolls.

“I do, if that person has the endorsement of the Holy Spirit, and if that person is Pope,” said Mendosa, stretching once as he tried to work the kinks out of his spine.

“Which you believe I am,” said Magistrate Zhuang.

“Yes, I truly and wholeheartedly believe you are,” said Mendosa somberly. “It may not make any sense at all to you, but I do believe it.”

She nodded as Willie translated. “All right. Let us suppose that I do the work you tell me I am called to do. I have no knowledge of the rites of the Church, and I have no patience with them anyway.”

Mendosa heard this with a gesture of agreement. “We are too top-heavy with ritual, no doubt. But it doesn’t have to be that way. You know, the Mass really consists only of one thing: the elevation of the Host. That’s it. It even says so in the text of the Mass: ita Missa est. This is the Mass. But almost no one believes that any more. They need all the pomp and ceremony or they think they haven’t had a Mass. Perhaps it’s time we got back to basics. We’re never going to do that on our own, Worthy Magistrate. Still, if you took the job, we might have a chance.”

“But why should that matter?” asked Magistrate Zhuang.

“I don’t know,” said Mendosa. “But I am certain that the Holy Spirit knows why.”

When Willie had changed Mendosa’s words to Chinese, he added, “I think Mendosa could be right, Worthy Magistrate. I know that the Church has lost many of its members. I’m one of them. And some of the reasons are that the Church has turned away from its sense of connectedness to the people who make it up. I don’t think it can endure that way, not in this world, not when the poorest kid in India can see the Pope in jewels and satin on satellite television.”

“In India the gods are expected to be very grand and fine,” said Magistrate Zhuang. “They give garlands to statues and put gold leaf on them.”

“Yes, but that is not the same. The Pope is a man, and he lives in a palace.” Willie did not bother to relay this to Mendosa. “I don’t want to admit this to the Cardinal, but I think that the Catholic Church can do the world much good, if it’s allowed to. The way things are now, most of the time it isn’t possible. But if you were Pope, there might be a chance. I don’t care if the high-ranking churchmen are not pleased. But there are millions of people in the world who would suffer less if the Church could be made to change.”

“You are preaching altruism, Mister Foot?” asked Zhuang with amusement.

“Maybe,” said Willie.

“And you think that I could bring altruism to such a corrupt body as the Catholic Church?” she persisted.

“I think you have a shot at it, and that you’re the only one who has,” Willie said candidly. “Aside from Cardinals Cadini and van Hooven, I don’t see anyone in the College of Cardinals who might get elected who would attempt any real changes in the Church, and even they aren’t prepared to buck the whole system. But you can, if you decide you want to take it on. And if you want my opinion, you’ll find Mendosa the best ally you’ll ever have. You see, he means it, that he believes in the choice of the Holy Spirit. And because of that, he will be fully dedicated to you, because the Holy Spirit chose you, and because he likes you.”

“I wish,” said Mendosa with heavy politeness, “that someone would tell me what’s going on.” He had taken some tea and his throat felt a bit better.

“You don’t need to know, Charles,” said Willie with a mercurial, exhausted smile.

“I don’t like the sound of that one little bit,” Mendosa informed him, and had more tea.

* * *

“And they spoke with her for how long?” Cardinal van Hooven asked Metropolitan Gosteshenko. In Rome it was a few minutes after two in the morning and the Cardinal had retired two hours before.

“The report I just received says that Cardinal Mendosa and his party were with Magistrate Zhuang for not quite ten hours. When they left off their discussion it was quiet late—after four in the morning. Magistrate Zhuang had sent for her neighbor’s wife some hours before to prevent any scandal, though the plan might backfire if the woman gossips.” The Metropolitan paused, stifling a yawn. “She’ll probably talk about it for years to come, or so I’m told.”

“By another one of the neighbors, perhaps?” He did not give Metropolitan Gosteshenko a chance to answer. “Are they still in Hongya, do you know? Where are they now?” asked Cardinal van Hooven, hoping for the first time that Cardinal Mendosa’s venture might not have been in vain.

“So far as I know, they are still with the Magistrate. My information indicated they had not yet left Hongya, but it is still fairly early there.” Metropolitan Gosteshenko hesitated. “I decided to call you in spite of the hour.”

“I do not sleep as much as I used to, and you have piqued my interest.”

The Metropolitan wanted to draw the Cardinal out. “Perhaps what you tell me now will explain what it is about this Chinese Magistrate that will guide the Church? ”

“Soon, Pavel, you have my word on it.” He paused minutely. “Not on this phone, perhaps. But first I have to speak with Cardinal Mendosa. Until I know what he has learned, I am as much in the dark as you are, and everyone else.” He forced himself to admit that he had been jumping to conclusions because he wanted the rangy Texan to have succeeded. “By the time you have supper, my friend, I ought to be able to tell you something, if Mendosa can get through.”

Metropolitan Gosteshenko did not question this. “I will do what I can, Piet, to keep you informed. As I expect to be informed. My sources are not many, but two of them are very reliable now that the Orthodox Church has some power again in Russia.” He paused to be sure Cardinal van Hooven understood him.

“Naturally,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “I am pleased to do this for you, in return for the many times you have given timely advice to me.”

“Good,” said the Metropolitan. “Your puzzle grows more fascinating by the hour.” He was silent again for an instant. “Will the conclave resume, then, now that Mendosa has found this Chinese woman? Is it necessary?”

“I sincerely hope it is all resolved,” said Cardinal van Hooven, who was feeling old tonight. “We cannot continue to vacillate much longer.”

“Emphatically, that is the case,” Metropolitan Gosteshenko agreed, and added, “Is Cardinal Tondocello any better? I have heard nothing regarding his condition for several days.”

“I regret to say he is not,” Cardinal van Hooven told him. “He was improving a little but now his physicians are very concerned. He has not shown any indication of returning strength. This is a bad sign.”

“That is unfortunate; he is a capable man.” His tone changed slightly. “And Cardinal Cadini? How is he?”

“He improves steadily and cheerfully,” said Cardinal van Hooven, relieved to offer better news. “He is no longer in hospital and he will be resuming a few of his duties in a matter of days. His spirits are excellent, he is reading two mystery novels a day, and claims he is becoming bored. All his nurses are half in love with him, and he has charmed the doctors into doing precisely what he wants. He will probably out-live us all.” Earlier that evening, when he had visited Cardinal Cadini in his private apartments, he had discovered the nurse and the cook sitting in the study with Cardinal Cadini, enthralled by his stories about his days as a young priest at the end of the Second World War.

“I will continue to pray for him, and for your Church,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko.

“And I for you and your Church, Pavel,” replied Cardinal van Hooven. “And for the world.” He paused a moment. “And particularly for this Chinese woman.”

“Yes, especially for her,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko.

* * *

In Chongqing, Mendosa asked his host—the same man they had stayed with the night before last—if he could call Europe, and was assured that it was possible, but costly. Mendosa offered a choice of four currencies and five credit cards, and added an extra gratuity for the privilege of privacy. Then he took a little electronic patch and put it on the receiver as he punched in the number he wanted. While the patch would not properly scramble the message, it would distort it enough for his purposes.

It was just over twenty-four hours since he met Magistrate Zhuang Renxin.

The call, beeping and warbling its electronic way to Rome picked up several eavesdroppers, which Mendosa had anticipated. When the phone in Cardinal Bradeston’s quarters rang, it was answered by the man himself, and without flourish.

“Alex,” said Mendosa, speaking in excellent and rapid Italian, “it’s Charles. I’ve had a most interesting meeting with the Magistrate I came here to see. She heard me out and I did my best to explain it all to her. She has promised to give me an answer in three days. Will you inform the others for me? We’re on our way back. Expect us in two days.”

“Two days?” Cardinal Bradeston asked with some surprise.

“If all goes well, yes, two. Nigel’s arranged for us to fly south tonight, and Willie’s friend will take care of all the rest. He’s told me we can bank on it.” He hesitated, his tone shifting to one a thought less confident. “How’s everything there? How’s Cadini?”

“Cadini’s fine,” said Cardinal Bradeston, who was not willing to make it easier for anyone listening to their conversation to sort it out. “But otherwise there are a few snags we ought to go over. Call me when you reach Willie’s friend and I’ll bring you up to date. Have a safe flight. And don’t worry.”

“Mille grazie,” said Mendosa, with a hint of sarcasm, and hung up quickly. He stood very still, his pulse racing again. Now it is started, he thought, and knelt by the desk in the library to pray.

* * *

In Hongya, two officials met over tea lunch to review what they had learned. “I don’t know what to advise,” said the younger, who out-ranked the older but was also his nephew.

“It is a very difficult situation,” said the uncle, shaking his head. “And it must be attended to.”

“One of us could speak to her,” suggested the nephew.

“She would become suspicious, and if she reports us, there would be trouble for all of us.”

“Sadly, that is true,” said the nephew.

“And if we try to influence her and fail, or worse, cause her to go in the opposite direction to the one we desire.…” He gestured to show how dangerous it all was. “We would have to answer for what she had done, and that could mean much disfavor for both of us.”

“She is a relative only through her marriage,” said the nephew as he ate a rice-dumpling stuffed with sweet bean paste. “Her husband is dead. She is not truly part of us.”

“There is Tibetan blood in her family,” said the uncle, as if this exonerated him from any responsibility for what Zhuang Renxin decided to do. “We had better remain silent,” said the nephew. “Yes,” the uncle concurred. “I think that would be best.”

Chapter 10

By the time Cardinal Mendosa’s plane was leaving Hong Kong, word had spread through the upper echelons of the Catholic Church with the determination of a wildfire in a garbage dump—the infuriating Texan had actually done what he had set out to do.

“And he was not stopped or questioned or detained? The Chinese authorities actually let him approach this woman?” demanded Cardinal Jung when he heard the news. “Why didn’t they forbid him to speak with her? Why wasn’t he turned back at the border? He’s a Cardinal! He’s an enemy of the People, in their eyes. They’re probably right, in his case.”

“No,” said Cardinal Bradeston when he could get a word in. “Aside from some routine questions given to foreigners, they let him go. I spoke to him earlier today, on scrambler. They were not bothered coming or going.” Around them the small, Asian-style garden was coming in full growth, the newest addition to the Vatican gardens.

“Then she will be questioned. You may be sure of it. Small wonder.” He gave a short, scoffing laugh: his satin cassock set him off in these surroundings, and from time to time a red-clad student would wander through and stare. “How foolish, to put that woman in danger, and for nothing.”

“She is considering the request,” said Cardinal Bradeston, doing his best not to let his irritation with his companion show. Unlike Cardinal Jung he wore a dark, conservative business suit; his lapel pins were in place and there was an antique crucifix under his dark foulard tie. “And we must pray that she will accept, or wish another Cardinal dead.”

“I did not realize Bostonians went in for such histrionic statements,” said Cardinal Jung, preparing to leave. “It’s a travesty, this entire recess. I do not blame the press for the circus they are making of it, given the temptation presented to them: I blame you, and those with you, for creating the circus in the first place.” With that, he started to walk away along the cypress-bordered path.

“Your Eminence,” Cardinal Bradeston called after him, “what if she says yes?”

Cardinal Jung barely glanced over his shoulder; he did not slow down. “She will not.”

“But if she does?” Cardinal Bradeston persisted. “What then?” He watched Cardinal Jung depart, his mouth set in a hard line. Only when Cardinal Jung was out of sight did Cardinal Bradeston rise and leave.

By the time he reached Cardinal Cadini’s apartments, he had brought his temper back under control. There were more than thirty other Cardinals who needed to be informed of Cardinal Mendosa’s achievements, and Cardinal Cadini had volunteered to provide the neutral ground.

“Welcome, welcome,” said Vitale, Cardinal Cadini as Cardinal Bradeston stepped into his sitting room. “As you see, Tayibha and Pingari are here ahead of you. We’re expecting Llanos, Montebranco, and Tsukamara. They should be here shortly.” He summoned his nurse, a middle-aged nun whose severe expression melted for Cardinal Cadini. “Sherry, given the hour, and something tasty. If that would suit you, Eminences?” He looked around at his guests.

“I would prefer tea,” said Cardinal Tayibha. He ducked his head apologetically. “I never learned to like sherry.”

“I’ve never learned to like tea,” said Cardinal Pingari, doing his best to make his quip humorous.

“Poor fellow. Tayibha, that is, not Pingari,” said Cardinal Cadini with unruffled good humor. “Well, then, tea you shall have. If you will tell my cook, Sister Fabiola? And yes, I will take those horrible little pills you are always presenting to me. Provide me a glass of water, if you would be good enough.” He held out his hand to her. “Come on; hand them over.”

Sister Fabiola gave him a little paper cup. “I can offer you water or you may wait for your sherry.” She had a voice that was deep but very tiny, an arresting combination. “Which shall it be?”

“Oh, the sherry, most certainly the sherry.” He stared down into the paper cup. “Why do they make these things in such hideous colors?” He looked at the nun, waiting for her explanation.

“So that you will not confuse them, or so I was taught,” she answered. “Oh, there was a call for you earlier; a Professor Bell. I told him you would return his call tomorrow.”

Cardinal Cadini nodded. “Poor Martin. He probably thinks I’m about to die. I’ll let him know I’ll be all right for a while longer. Thank you for taking the message, Sister.” He looked at his guests. “I’m sorry this has intruded on our meeting.”

“Your health isn’t an intrusion,” said Cardinal Bradeston. “Your offer for us to meet here is more generous than anyone expects, considering what you have had to endure recently.” He tried to catch the nun’s eye, but without success. “I’d be pleased to act as your deputy and bring the sherry. Tell me where it is.”

“By all means,” said Cardinal Cadini, his smile not as high-voltage as usual, but still charismatic. “Very good of you. Eminences, if you will wait, Cardinal Bradeston will tend to you shortly.”

“You do us all a great favor,” said Cardinal Pingari, for form’s sake. He was more interested in what Cardinal Bradeston had to report—if all the rumors were right—than hospitality. If Cardinal Mendosa had succeeded the announcement would call for something more than sherry.

“Actually, Your Eminences,” said Sister Fabiola more quietly than before, “it would be best if you leave the task to me. They are already speculating that Cardinal Cadini was poisoned, which caused his collapse. If anything more should happen to him, it could be thought that one of you had something to do with it.”

“That’s nonsense!” Cardinal Cadini declared merrily. “Cardinal Bradeston and I are on the same side. Why should he poison me?”

Sister Fabiola turned and stared hard at him. “Why should he not? Cardinals are as capable of duplicity as anyone else.” Her habit was modern—a nurse’s uniform with a half-veil behind her cap—but she was as formidable as one of the old-style Mother Superiors in full sail. “I do not wish to speak against anyone in this room, or in the Vatican, but we have had two Popes die in the last few months. Cardinal Tondocello has been ailing, and now Cardinal Cadini has suffered a thoracic seizure. The assumption of wrong-doing has been inferred from less.”

“Very suspicious, old men like us taking ill,” said Cardinal Cadini with a wink.

“All right,” said Cardinal Bradeston, ignoring Cardinal Cadini’s aside. “Then come with me and we’ll tend to this together, Sister. I won’t answer questions until Cardinals Montebranco, Llanos, and Tsukamara arrive, in any case.”

The nun bowed her head to show her submission, but there was a set to her chin that showed she would not have acquiesced had she disapproved of his intentions. “Very good, Eminence.” But as soon as they were into the corridor, she said, “I must tell you that I find your conduct most offensive.”

Cardinal Bradeston looked at her, startled at this flat announcement. He did his best to give her a polite response. “Why is that, Sister? In what way have I offended you? It wasn’t my intention, I assure you.”

She stopped and looked directly at him. “Prince of the Church or not, I do not wish to be called a poisoner, either directly or by implication.” At that, she lowered her eyes. “If Your Eminence will forgive my outburst.”

“Sister,” said Cardinal Bradeston with his best diplomatic cough, “I thought the implication was that I would poison Cardinal Cadini and you would be blamed. Have I inferred the wrong thing?” They had almost reached the kitchen at the end of the oak-paneled hall. “I assumed that the reason you did not want me to handle his medication or his wine was that I could be accused of poisoning him if he grew worse.”

“Such things have happened,” Sister Fabiola allowed quietly.

“Indeed they have,” said Cardinal Bradeston. He stopped and looked at the nun once more. “I am certain I would never do anything to hurt Cardinal Cadini, who is my friend and ally. But I know nothing of you.”

She nodded. “A reasonable observation: Cardinal Cadini saved my father’s life in the Second World War. He was shot himself rather than let my father die. The Cardinal carries the scars to this day. The least I owe him is my life.” She lifted her chin.

“Then we might both spend our time more usefully taking care of him.” Cardinal Bradeston permitted her to open the kitchen door for him, and waited while Sister Fabiola spoke to the cook. He would have to find out if what the nun said was true, and if her father was still alive.

When Cardinal Bradeston and Sister Fabiola returned to the sitting room, Cardinals Montebranco and Llanos had arrived, along with Cardinal Ochoa of Asuncion.

“Another member for our party,” said Cardinal Cadini, waving his nurse and Cardinal Bradeston to the butler’s table at the center of the room. “We’ll need another glass and plate, if you would. Where’s that sherry, Sister Fabiola? I might as well get this over with. Cardinal Tsukamara will be here shortly; he has been on the telephone to Tokyo.” He held out his hand. “Come on.”

Sister Fabiola poured the sherry and handed the small crystal glass to Cardinal Cadini. “Take all the pills, Eminence. No cheating.”

“If you insist. She’s a dragon, this one. I reckon my physician sent her to me so I would have to obey his instructions.” He patted the arm of his chair with a trace of amused annoyance. “Which keeps me in this for a few days longer, more’s the pity.”

The other Cardinals made brief sympathetic remarks, and one asked, “Will this make it difficult for you to participate in the conclave?”

“Not at all.” He offered a silent toast to Sister Fabiola and took the pills she had given him. “I have arranged for a wheelchair if it is necessary, but more to the point, I would have to be in an irreversible coma before I would not attend the conclave.”

There was a single rap at the door and Tokuyu, Cardinal Tsukamara came into the sitting room. He bowed to those assembled and said, “I apologize for being late. It is regrettable but unavoidable.”

“Hardly regrettable,” said Cardinal Cadini, indicating one of the three remaining chairs. “Make yourself comfortable. Let Cardinal Bradeston pour you some sherry, or wait for tea with Tayibha.” He was in good form, though Cardinal Bradeston saw that he was too pale.

When the sherry had been passed around and a brief prayer spoken, Cardinal Bradeston rose. Given the kind of room it was, he went to the fireplace and rested his arm on the mantlepiece. “You’ve all heard by now that Cardinal Mendosa found the Chinese Magistrate Zhuang Renxin, haven’t you?” He paused long enough to permit anyone who had not had this news to speak up. When there were no questions, he went on. “He informed her of the elections, and she has promised her answer by midnight tomorrow. That, incidentally, will be midnight her time.” He smiled quickly, though none of the Cardinals found him funny. “Cardinal Mendosa told me that she has indicated she may be willing to take up the duties the Holy Spirit has imposed upon her.”

“It would be very difficult,” said Cardinal Pingari, who had learned long ago that dealing with China was a tricky business. “Suppose she agrees to the elevation, what then? The People’s Republic of China will not want one of their officials to be associated with the Church. Their official policy still forbids any alliances with the Church for anyone in China, and this is surely an alliance. The government of the PRC does not recognize the Church, or any of its functions.” He locked his hands together.

“Something can be arranged,” said Cardinal Tsukamara. “Many things can be arranged, if you are patient and put your trust in God.” The Japanese Cardinal’s father had died three years after his son was born, one of the hundreds of idealistic kamikaze pilots whose fiery suicides had wrought such naval destruction in World War II. His mother’s conversion had taken place when he was eight, and he had been devout ever since.

“Patience might be necessary, even virtuous, but just at present it isn’t desirable,” said Cardinal Cadini unexpectedly. “We cannot wait for a year or two while all the diplomats decide on the shape of table they can tolerate for negotiations. We must make our arrangements swiftly if Magistrate Zhuang agrees to reign. There is going to be shock enough without drawn-out arrangements to cloud the whole issue.”

“How can she refuse if the Holy Spirit commands it?” asked Cardinal Montebranco.

“According to Cardinal Mendosa, she does not accept the Holy Spirit, or religion in general.” Cardinal Bradeston did not go on until the mutter of consternation was over. “She is a Communist, gentlemen, and in these days, that world and party still hold power in the PRC.… She does not like the Church and she disapproves of our methods and distrusts our motives. But if she decides her duty lies here, then she will come here to do it.” He stared down at the fancy parquetry floor. “This is nothing like we expected.”

“The whole election is nothing like we expected,” said Cardinal Ochoa, folding his arms so that the pectoral cross he wore rested against his forearms.

“Cardinal Jung has said he will oppose the election,” said Cardinal Cadini, and was greeted by the hard expressions he had expected. “He does not want her here because she is Asian and non-Catholic, and worst of all, female. He has said he will prove that a woman cannot serve as Pope, in spite of the legend of Pope Joan. He is convinced that her election is part of an elaborate conspiracy.” He started to cough, and took a swig of his sherry. “Pay no attention. It’s the last of my condition, nothing worse than that.”

“Cardinal Jung has many who support him. Cardinal Lepescu has already stated that he cannot accept a Pope who is not a priest.” Cardinal Llanos took one of the almond cookies. “They are important men, those who stand against her. So is Cardinal Gemme, and he is refusing to be counted on either side.”

“Cardinal Gemme wants to make it appear he is the kingmaker,” said Cardinal Tsukamara with great care. “He intends to gain power no matter which way the conclave decides. If he hesitates, he can make it seem he is being courted for support, and that would serve his purposes very well.”

Cardinal Cadini clapped. “Bravo, amico.”

“He’s not the only one,” said Cardinal Bradeston. “Cardinal Hetre is up to something, too. He is opposed to the woman on principle, but he has said that he intends to review the voting, to be certain that all the ballots are genuine.”

“How can he do that?” asked Cardinal Ochoa. “The ballots are burned after being tallied.”

“True,” said Cardinal Bradeston. “But most of the public doesn’t know that. If he says he is ordering a recount, there are those who will believe and support him.” He shifted his weight, and changed his posture so that he was more erect. “Let me advise all of you to say nothing, and to make no comment on what the other Cardinals are saying. Let us remember that we answer first to God, not to the world press or public opinion. We have compromised the conclave enough with a recess. If you wish to have any—”

“What did Cardinal Mendosa say about this woman? Is she…well, what is she?” asked Cardinal Pingari.

Cardinal Bradeston was relieved for the interruption, and started to recount everything Cardinal Mendosa had said about Zhuang Renxin, hoping it would be enough to keep these Cardinals from turning against her; the balance within the College of Cardinals would be critical to the new Pope.

* * *

An hour out from Rome, Willie Foot woke up, stretched and looked over at Cardinal Mendosa. “You awake?”

“I haven’t slept.” He eased his long legs out, finding even the first class space inadequate to his height. “We’re almost there.”

“You’re nervous?” Willie scrubbed his hair, letting his fingers go down his face, massaging the fair stubble on his cheeks. “You were nervous in Hong Kong, and you are still.”

Cardinal Mendosa looked toward the window. He did not answer at first, watching the land give way to sea below them. “We’ll know soon. She’ll let us know what she’s decided.”

“And the waiting is driving you crazy,” added Willie. He tapped the steward-call. “You want something to drink?”

“No. Not when I’m this jet-lagged.” He sat up a little straighter as the flight attendant approached. “Black coffee, lots of it. And one of those sandwiches with the cream cheese and roast beef.”

“Cognac. Hennesey if you have it.” Willie watched the flight attendant as she went back toward the first class galley. “Pretty girl.”

“That she is,” Cardinal Mendosa seconded. “She’ll age well, too, with a face like that.”

Willie swung around to look at him. “Why, Charles, and you a Cardinal.”

“I’m a man, not a saint. I’m also not homosexual, latent, repressed, or admitted.” He settled back in his seat. “I like women. I always have. Of all the things the Church has demanded of me, celibacy is far and away the…hardest.” He stifled a chuckle.

“You raunchy old Texan,” said Willie, quite delighted.

“And Latino, too. That makes it worse, or so they tell me,” said Mendosa.

The flight attendant brought Willie his drink, cast a speculative glance in Cardinal Mendosa’s direction, and went back for his order.

“She likes you,” said Willie, having a wonderful time. He lifted his snifter “Well, here’s to the women we love. Platonically, of course.”

Mendosa could not make light of it. “Do you mean Dame Leonie?” As Willie almost choked on the cognac, he went on, “I saw how you looked at her; how she looked at you. She’s a married woman, Willie, with a public life, and what you feel isn’t—”

“I love her,” said Willie very quietly, and drank half the cognac. “I’ve loved her for years.”

“She is married,” said Mendosa, looking up as the flight attendant approached. “Wait a bit before you answer.”

“Why the hell couldn’t we have had this conversation in the middle of China?” Willie demanded in an angry whisper. “Why wait until now? We’ll be landing in forty-five minutes.” He signaled for a second cognac before the flight attendant could walk away.

Mendosa bent his head as his tray was set down, whispered a few words and crossed himself. “There was no reason to mention it. Your private life is your private life, unless you decide to draw me into it. I’ve prayed for you, but that’s part of my job.” He picked up one of the sandwich quarters. “I don’t want to cause any upset. But I know what I saw and heard, especially when we returned from Hongya. You were not very discreet, Willie, and for her sake you ought to be. She’s the one with something to lose, far more than you.” He chomped into the sandwich, chewing vigorously. “Here,” he said around a mouthful. “Have some. You’re going to need something to sop up the cognac.”

“Worried about my liver as well as my reputation?” Willie asked.

“No, about your tongue. When we land there are going to be questions to answer, and I don’t want anything coming out…prematurely. You gave me your word when all this started that you’d say nothing without my okay, and I aim to see you honor it.” He had some coffee then looked at Willie with concern. “If you’re going to keep on with Dame Leonie, take care, will you?”

“Or we’ll burn in Hell?” Willie ventured.

Mendosa shook is head. “I don’t know about that. I won’t bother with rules you don’t believe in. But you would certainly fry in the press, and that might be worse than a season in Hell.”

“It’s not what you think. She’s…alone. Her husband isn’t that…interested in her.” Willie was becoming defensive, and his face was set.

“A marriage of convenience? That’s unfortunate, and probably grounds for annulment, if what I think you’re implying is true, given how consistently wrong-headed the Church is about sexual preference.” He wolfed down another quarter of his sandwich. “But as long as they are married, she can’t afford scandal with you, can she? I’m not talking religion, Willie; get that out of your head. I’m not going to preach at you, and I won’t tell you what you’re doing is wrong; I’m talking pragmatism.” He put the last of the sandwich aside and addressed his companion directly. “I know you love her. She is important to you. So use a little sense for her sake, if not for yours.”

Willie did not say anything; he took more cognac, held it in his mouth until his eyes were about to water, then swallowed. “Tell me, Your Eminence,” he said distantly, his voice cool, “don’t you think you’re the blind leading the seeing?”

“You mean I don’t know what you’re going through?” Mendosa asked with a rueful lift of his brows.

“Something like that.”

Mendosa sighed, and spoke very quietly. “Oh, I know. I know better than I would like. I had a mistress for eight years.” He looked down at his sandwich. “I loved her beyond anything words can express. She was as close to me as any human being has ever been. She touched my soul. And I almost ruined her. Oh, not that I meant to; I tried to keep her from any harm. I bent the rules to pretzels, but it wasn’t enough: in the end I couldn’t protect her, no matter how much I wanted to.” He had to cough, and went on in a different tone. “When I lost her, I thought I had lost everything. Faith. Career. Meaning. Libido. But none of it was true.”

Willie did his best not to look shocked. “Charles, you’re talking to a journalist.”

“Who happens to be my friend,” Mendosa countered. “I am trusting that friendship counts for something.” He hesitated. “Eventually, most of it returned, although she did not. I haven’t wanted to take such a risk again, not if it could damage someone I love deeply. But I can’t deny my desires. Sometimes I put on my civvies and have a very discreet night on the town. It’s safer, though it doesn’t fill the void. I’m not the only man in a Roman collar who does these things. I confess it afterward, of course, but…the trouble is, I don’t usually think I’m sinning.” He drank the last of his coffee.

Willie was unable to come up with anything to say. He finished his cognac, taking care to avoid the occasional inquisitive glances Mendosa shot his way. Finally he cleared his throat and put the little snifter down. “You’re taking a chance, telling me so much.”

“I doubt it,” said Mendosa, lazy amusement coming back into his eyes. “You’re not a total hypocrite, or an exploiter.”

“How can you be sure of that?” Willie asked, genuinely curious.

“Well,” said Mendosa, “considering what we’ve just done, I’d reckon I’ve got a pretty good measure of you, if I hadn’t had one before.”

“And you’ve got something to blackmail with, if you want to,” said Willie, hating himself for speaking his fears aloud.

Mendosa did not speak at once. “I trust,” he said in a silky undervoice, “that you did not mean that.”

Willie looked down. “No,” he said as the seatbelt sign came on, “I didn’t.”

* * *

“But we elected her twice,” said Dominique, Cardinal Hetre, his eyes like banked coals, “and she may not refuse.”

“Another Cardinal could not refuse,” said Cardinal Jung at his most ponderous. “She was not informed the first time she was elected, and was not allowed the chance to refuse. If she will not accept the tiara now, we would still have to elect her again, and I do not think we would be so…so reckless as that. This woman is not a Christian, let alone a Catholic, and she has no understanding of the Church or of God. I tell you, we will deserve the contempt we will all receive if we insist on attempting to bring this woman here.” He regarded the other four Cardinals in his quarters, trying to imbue them with his will.

But the others were forceful men, too, and not given to accommodation. Jaime, Cardinal O’Higgins of Mexico regarded Cardinal Jung with suspicion. “It has been agreed that we will wait until we have heard what Cardinal Mendosa has to say to us before we question the election of this…this woman again. Your concern about her election is specious until then; she has been elected twice and our hands are tied.”

“And Cardinal Mendosa has not informed us of what happened during his meeting with her,” said Cardinal Hetre, one hand to his aching eyes.

Cardinal Jung made an angry, sweeping gesture. “We know what he thinks already! It was just on the news. He steps off the plane into a crowd of press and other media and says his journey was successful, and Catholics everywhere should pray for the Church and the College of Cardinals. Can you imagine such impudence!”

“Calm yourself, Eminence,” said Cardinal van Hooven, alarmed at the rich plum color that suffused Cardinal Jung’s face.

“How can I be calm when I see the Church about to be made the object of the world’s mockery? It is more than should be asked of any of us. How can we have been so stupid as to permit that Cardinal from Houston to undertake so ill-conceived a journey? How could we forget our obligations so completely?” Cardinal Jung looked to the others for support.

“What you are saying,” explained Chicago’s Andrew, Cardinal Aquilino, “is that you did not expect Cardinal Mendosa to reach the woman. You’ve been assuming all along that we would not have to consider her for the Papacy at all.”

“Eminence,” said Cardinal Jung, rounding on Cardinal Aquilino, “you are a fellow-countryman of Cardinal Mend—”

Cardinal Aquilino cracked out a single, sharp laugh. “Houston isn’t Chicago, Your Eminence, any more than Copenhagen is Athens.” He leaned back in his chair in such a way that he appeared to grow taller. “You won’t get anywhere claiming this is American factionalism, not over a Chinese Communist female.” His words were directed at Cardinal Jung, but there was a veiled challenge to the others as well.

“It’s bad enough that we have accepted this absurd turn of affairs,” Cardinal Jung blustered on, “but we are now behaving as if we might endorse this election. Don’t any of you recognize how destructive it could be?”

“We have elected her twice,” Cardinal van Hooven reiterated, looking at Cardinal Jung, his mild blue eyes rendered huge by his thick glasses. “It means nothing that we did not inform her; we elected her twice. We had no choice but to inform her and implore her to serve. Any selection we make other than this woman now that we have elected her twice would be unacceptable to me, and I should suppose, to many of our College. Or did you intend to be the next Pope, Sylvestre? Considering how short the reigns of the last two have been, I should think you’d prefer another take the risk.”

Cardinal Aquilino chuckled. “You could say that of any of us, if we set aside our own rules.”

“Precisely,” Cardinal van Hooven declared. “How can we refuse to live by the very dicta we established for ourselves so long ago?”

Cardinal Jung shook his head. “It’s not germane. This isn’t a question of dispute among Cardinals, or a political favorite coming into power, this is.…” He lifted his hands to show how unable he was to describe the enormity of his error. “Who could have anticipated so preposterous a turn of events as this one?” He waited for endorsement. When he received none, he burst out, “You cannot want this woman to come here.”

“No,” said Cardinal O’Higgins, who appeared to have been dozing. “If I had been asked by God for my opinion, I would have said it was a poorly conceived notion; but I have not entirely lost my faith, and if God has summoned her twice, I am sworn to abide by His wishes.”

Cardinal Aquilino thumped the upholstered arm of his chair. “You’ve described it precisely.”

“How do you mean?” Cardinal Hetre asked Cardinal O’Higgins.

“I mean that I am prepared to defy any and all of you, Eminences, but I am not prepared to defy God.” He rose. “I don’t want this woman; God does. And whether I like it or not, I am His deputy.” Without further comment or apology he left Cardinal Jung’s quarters.

“He’s right,” said Cardinal Aquilino. “We have to answer to God.” He stood, very straight and impressive in spite of his age. “Whether we believe in Him or not.”

“That will do,” said Cardinal Hetre bluntly. His headache was back, ravaging his skull. “As His deputies we must endeavor to…discern His wishes. But this—this is so unlikely.”

“Electing her twice is sufficient for me, just because it is so unlikely,” said Cardinal Aquilino. “Until we know what she has decided, I think we had best stop anticipating trouble. We’re going to have to answer to someone for her election, and I, for one, would prefer it was only public opinion we have to deal with, and not the ire of God.” He started toward the door. “I have been hearing rumors that some of you conspired to keep this woman from ever reaching Rome. Most of my sources are unreliable and sensationalistic, but a few are circumspect and dependable. I am concerned, Eminences. I am prepared to believe the rumors are false, if you will assure me such is the case. Otherwise, I must be on the alert for those of you who have made themselves the foes of God.”

Cardinal Jung said nothing; Cardinal Hetre made an unconvincing laugh. “Those are the mutterings of Protestants,” he told Cardinal Aquilino. “They are always prepared to think the worst of us.”

“Protestants,” repeated Cardinal Aquilino. “Of course. When in doubt, say the Protestants are responsible, as they so often claim Catholics are.” He paused at the door. “This is a very difficult time. We must not let the turmoil overwhelm us.” With that, he opened the door. “We will have her answer by this time tomorrow, gentlemen. We can decide what is to be done then. I only pray God knows what He’s doing.”

* * *

Dmitri Karodin picked up his personal telephone, surprised to have a call at this very early hour. He said good-morning and waited to hear what his highly placed informant in Beijing had learned.

“According to what Zhuang Renxin told the government investigators from Beijing, the Cardinal came to inform her that she has been elected Pope.”

Karodin slammed down the phone.

* * *

Clancy McEllton looked at his uncle, thinking that poor old Neddy was getting much too thin. He had probably been fasting, thought Clancy with disgust. Punishment of the body was one of the many things about the Church that had caused Clancy to disbelieve at an early age. “I’ve been trying to visit you for a long time,” he said, doing his best to sound friendly and solicitous.

Father McEllton, in his white habit, smiled a bit but remained silent.

“When you left the Vatican, right after the election of Celestine, we were worried that you might have had…something unpleasant, something, perhaps, political happen to you? When you sent no word, my father thought you might have been pressured in some way.” It was as much of an opening as he dared to give. He pressed on. “I’ve been truly worried; the whole family’s been worried.”

Father McEllton lowered his eyes and made a gesture of apology.

“You can’t blame us for feeling the way we do, not with all the rumors flying, and the way the Cardinals have been carrying on,” Clancy insisted, warming to his task. “And now with all the hesitation about the new Pope, well, we can’t help but wonder if…you were pressured into leaving.”

Father McEllton shook his head twice.

“But you just…left. For no good reason. You were in an enviable position and then you’re here in this damned.… I don’t mean damned, really, but it’s.… You enter this monastery without telling anyone why. It doesn’t make any sense, unless someone ordered you here. Is someone working against you? I know how political things get with the Cardinals. And with two dead Popes so close together, it must be pretty scrambled with the Vatican right now. Did they force you into leaving? Were you ordered to come here?”

Again Father McEllton shook his head twice.

Clancy wanted to yell at his uncle in order to get him to speak. He had never been so frustrated. “You can tell me, Uncle Neddy. I won’t spread it around, but I want to be able to let the family know you’re all right. I can do that without betraying any confidence, really I can. I’ll put everyone’s mind at ease if you’ll just tell me something. Anything. There’s some of them who think you sought sanctuary here, so you wouldn’t be a target any more. That’s not true, is it?” He waited, growing angry.

Father McEllton fingered the rosary depending from his belt.

“Uncle Neddy, for Crissake—I don’t mean that, but…you’ve got to tell me something.” He rose from the plain, straight-backed chair and crossed the small white-washed room to stand beside his father’s brother. “What’s going on? What have they done to you?” If only he could learn something to tell Mister Greene of International Vision, Ltd. His most recent conversation with Mister Greene had left him with the same feeling he had had in the field, when things were about to change for the worse. Clancy had detected an urgency in Mister Greene, and through him from the International Vision, Ltd. They had raised their offer again, promising him an additional sixty thousand dollars if he could discover what had been going on in the conclave.

Father McEllton rose from his chair and started toward the inner door, his face averted.

“You’re being coerced, aren’t you? Just tell me and I’ll get you some help. You won’t have to hide out here like the cops were after you. You don’t have to knuckle under to them. Someone must have ordered you to get out and shut up. You can tell me who, can’t you? You can tell me that much.” He was afraid to follow his uncle, afraid that the priest would not consent to see him again if he did.

Father McEllton opened the door and sketched a blessing in Clancy’s direction.

“Uncle Neddy!” Clancy protested, watching helplessly as Father McEllton left him alone in the small, white-washed room.

* * *

Shortly before sunset, Vitale, Cardinal Cadini met Charles, Cardinal Mendosa near the entrance to the Sistine Chapel; he was dressed in his tweed jacket and open-necked polo shirt and carried a large book on the history of China. “At least it’s a pleasant evening. Are you nervous?”

Charles, Cardinal Mendosa wore his favorite dark suit, silk shirt and cowboy boots. “Petrified.”

“But it’s in God’s hands now,” said Cardinal Cadini with a splendid smile. “You have done everything humanly possible—”

“Short of kidnapping her,” Cardinal Mendosa interjected. “But I wouldn’t have known how to get her through customs,” he added, his joke not very successful.

“Yes; but that would not have made our offer very attractive, would it.” He looked up at the sky. “I’ve been reading about China today, in case she accepts. I think it would be sensible if more of us did so.”

“Very likely,” said Cardinal Mendosa, still distracted.

“Jet lag?” Cardinal Cadini suggested.

“Yeah, but that’s not what’s getting to me,” Cardinal Mendosa said, fidgeting with his tie-clasp. “We’ll know sometime tonight, I guess.”

“Would you like to pray about it?” Cardinal Cadini asked. “God won’t mind if we ask Him for a little more help.”

Cardinal Mendosa shrugged, his manner slightly brusque. “God’s heard more than enough from me in the past few days. I’ve been pestering Him half to death. He’s probably just as glad to have me shut up for a while. Besides, the others are doubtless putting their two cents worth in with Him. I’d get lost in the shuffle.” He rocked back on his heels. “Don’t be annoyed. It’s not you.” There was no way for him to explain the visions that had filled what little sleep he had been able to have since his plane landed. He was certain now that Zhuang Renxin would be elevated, that she had been chosen to reign as Pope since her birth. It was not her coronation that troubled Cardinal Mendosa—it was what would come after.

“What did you think of her? Really?” asked Cardinal Cadini.

He did not look at the short, rotund Italian; instead he narrowed his eyes and stared into the remote distance. “I thought she was very responsible, very…very dutiful.” He pressed his hands together, then dropped them. “She’s not the kind to take any wheeling and dealing. It’s not her style. She won’t take flattery very well, either. She doesn’t trust sycophants. She…she’s very sensible and…and I think she’s compassionate.”

“And what do you base that on?” Cardinal Cadini prompted, more to keep Cardinal Mendosa talking than to hear his explanation.

“Faith.” The Texan looked at Cardinal Cadini, and took the greatest chance he dared. “I think God knew what He wanted when He nominated her.”

“That’s quite a recommendation,” said Cardinal Cadini. He began to stroll down the side of the Vatican Museum. “My physician insists that I walk for twenty minutes every day. Nothing strenuous, but a gentle, steady pace.”

“Fine with me,” said Cardinal Mendosa, who was relieved that Cardinal Cadini had not pressed him. “You set the pace, I’ll tag along.”

This suited Cardinal Cadini, who ambled his way, ignoring those moving faster than he. “I suppose you’re aware that Cardinal Jung is trying to mount a real opposition to the Chinese woman,” he said conversationally. “While you were gone he stepped up his efforts tremendously.”

“I thought he might,” said Cardinal Mendosa.

“Strange company he’s been keeping, too, because of it. He’s made a strong play for the third world Cardinals: Africa and Latin America, for political reasons. It’s not his usual clique. He’s trying to get Cardinal Hetre to side with him, because he wants someone who runs with the liberals to—”

“Cardinal Hetre isn’t a liberal,” Cardinal Mendosa protested.

“He’s often perceived that way, and you know it,” said Cardinal Cadini, nodding as a group of red-cassocked seminarians hurried past them. “Do you remember what it was like, being one of them?”

“Not really; I never was like them. I didn’t study in Rome,” he reminded Cardinal Cadini, who was already aware of it.

“I did, for a year,” said Cardinal Cadini. “I got into a terrible argument with another of the seminarians, and I was the one asked to go elsewhere to study. It was the most sensible thing I ever did.” He beamed at Cardinal Mendosa. “Tell me some more about our future Pope.”

“You’re so certain?” Cardinal Mendosa asked.

“Well, you are, so I am taking a page from your book.” He smiled merrily, his eyes showing a return of the twinkle they usually held. “How will she cope with the College of Cardinals and the Curia?”

“She won’t like them very much,” said Cardinal Mendosa bluntly. “She doesn’t suffer foolishness well.”

“What about fools?” asked Cardinal Cadini.

“She was very patient with me and the two men with me. That says something in her favor, doesn’t it? She asked sensible questions.” He studied the backs of his hands. “She thinks the religion is confusing and the bureaucracy is cumbersome. If she agrees, she has asked me to return to China to teach her more. Willie Foot says he will go with me.”

“He’d be an idiot if he didn’t. He’ll do a book about this and make a fortune.” Cardinal Cadini beamed. “Other people will do the same thing, no matter how this turns out, but at least Willie will get it right. That’s something to be pleased about.”

“You’re sounding downright optimistic,” said Cardinal Mendosa, unable to stave off the nervousness that possessed him. “I’ve been wondering if she’ll be able to call, and how the call will be arranged. Dame Leonie said she would take care of everything, but.…” He looked east, toward the river and away from the bulk of the Vatican.

“Dame Leonie must know what she’s doing,” said Cardinal Cadini, paying little attention to Cardinal Mendosa’s edginess. “Yes. I am optimistic. I think that the Church needs this crisis, don’t you?”

Cardinal Mendosa stopped walking and stared at Cardinal Cadini. “What do you mean?”

His expression remained as affable as ever, but there was an unaccustomed somberness in his voice. “Oh, that the Church has been coasting since John XXIII. We’ve been burrowing for the seventeenth century, as if we could regress. We’ve learned to use computers but we do it with medieval minds. We’re approaching another millennium, and the world is constantly in upheaval. Look how much Europe has changed in the last decade, and how much more change is coming. If we do not share that upheaval, we will be buried in the rubble. And we will deserve it.”

“Magistrate Zhuang might be more than anyone bargained for,” Cardinal Mendosa warned, with a faint smile.

“So much the better,” said Cardinal Cadini.

* * *

The phone call came while Dame Leonie was having breakfast. She set her coffee aside and answered the summons from her butler.

“Yes, thank you, Harding,” she said as she took the receiver. “Leonie Purcell here,” and she wished her caller a pleasant good morning in Chinese.

“To you as well, Madame Ambassadress,” said Zhuang Renxin. “Have you a recording device, as you informed me yesterday you would?”

“Yes, Worthy Magistrate,” said Dame Leonie. “I have and it is working.”

“Very good,” said Magistrate Zhuang. “I must ask you to relay this recording to Cardinal Mendosa in Rome. I want you to tell him that I have considered everything he has told me very carefully.”

“And you have reached a decision?” Dame Leonie said, doing her best not to hold her breath.

“Yes. I said I would inform him this morning, and with your assistance, I will.” She paused. “Please inform Cardinal Mendosa that providing he can arrange for me to come to Rome, I will accept the office I have been offered.”

Dame Leonie wanted to shriek happily and bounce into the air, but she merely said, “This is excellent news, Worthy Magistrate. I am honored to be able to relay it for you.”

“I will inform my government what has taken place, and then put the problem of leaving China in the hands of others.” She sounded resigned but not despondent. “You have been very kind to help me, Dame Leonie.”

“It is my pleasure, Worthy Magistrate,” said Dame Leonie as she heard Zhuang Renxin hang up. Then she put down her receiver, took the tape from the recorder next to the phone and hurried to her office. Before she placed her call to Cardinal Mendosa at the Vatican, she faxed a short message to Willie Foot: the widow says yes.

Chapter 11

An argument camouflaged as a discussion was taking place in the Cardinal’s private reading room in the Vatican library; it had begun shortly before midnight, and now, nearly two hours later, showed no sign of abating. Cardinal Gemme and Cardinal Jung had squared off early and were still throwing dogma and precedents at each other, seconded or decried by about thirty of their fellows. None of them admitted they were waiting for word from China.

Charles, Cardinal Mendosa did not find this bickering amusing, and, after an hour of it, had left for his own quarters. He admitted being restless, though he was utterly convinced that Zhuang Renxin would agree to reign as Pope. He knelt at his prie-dieu, making no effort to block the visions that had crowded his mind all day. It was a relief to experience them, for denying their existence was a greater strain than perceiving them. Even the one vision that troubled him the most, that ended in confusion and tremendous light, did not upset him this evening. He whispered, “‘Lord, now let Thy servant depart in peace,” taking great comfort in the familiar plea. The tranquil Asian face surmounted by the Papal tiara filled his thoughts. Catholics, he observed as he prayed, were about to meet their Confucius—or Buddha.

Father Andreas Viernes knocked on the door to Cardinal Mendosa’s apartments a short while later. “Eminence,” he said very quietly, still too awed by his superior to be a very effective secretary. “There is a phone call for you.”

Cardinal Mendosa crossed himself, smiling as he did it. He rose. “Coming,” he called out, and headed toward the door in long strides that looked out of place in his dark cassock. He opened the door and beamed at Father Viernes. “Where?”

“Your office.” Father Viernes moved awkwardly, as if he did not want to get too close to the Cardinal. “It’s long distance.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Cardinal Mendosa, surging past his new secretary and hastening to his office. As he entered the door he reached across the desk and picked up the receiver. “This is Cardinal Mendosa.”

“Good morning, Cardinal,” said Dame Leonie Purcell. “I have a tape recording to play for you.” Without further ado, she replayed the call she had received less than ten minutes before.

“Brief and to the point,” said Cardinal Mendosa when Dame Leonie had translated the short conversation. “Thank you, thank you, Dame Leonie. I’ll need copies of that, with translation. You and my secretary can work out the details of shipping. In the meantime I will have to inform my…colleagues that the question is out of our hands at last.” He paused. “I am very grateful to you, Madame Ambassadress.”

“Nonsense, Your Eminence,” she replied with as much sincerity as good manners. “It is part of my function, as finding this woman is part of yours.” She chuckled suddenly. “Besides, it’s been very exciting. Most of the time my duties are nowhere near as interesting.”

“If you insist,” said Cardinal Mendosa with a welling of affection for the British Ambassadress to the People’s Republic of China Hong Kong District.

“I’m afraid I do, Your Eminence,” she said as demurely as she was able. “There may be other times when it will no longer be the case.”

“Those times may come sooner than you think,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “We will still have to arrange for her to come here.” He sighed as he considered what would have to be done to start the process, “I suppose I’ll have to make formal application to visit Magistrate Zhuang officially. That promises to be tricky. And Premiere Zuo must be properly notified. Although how we’re to manage that, I don’t know.” He put his hand to his forehead. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to start rattling on. Let me say a formal thank you, assure you of proper acknowledgement of your services in this quest, and go break the news to the others.”

“You can do that, Eminence. And I will speak with your secretary to work out the prompt transfer of the tapes. Would diplomatic pouch suit you?” She hesitated. “I don’t envy you, having to give this news to the world.”

Cardinal Mendosa did not respond at once, and when he did there was a lilt of mischief under his drawl. “You mean all those Bishops and Archbishops and Cardinals who voted against women in the priesthood having to swallow a woman Pope? Well, I kind of think it’s going to be fun. It’s been a hoot so far.”

This time Dame Leonie laughed outright. “Good luck, Mendosa,” she said when she stopped.

“Thanks, Ma’am,” said Cardinal Mendosa, signaling to his secretary. “You arrange things with Father Viernes here. Be patient with him. He’s new.” With that he handed the receiver to Father Viernes, who had been hovering in the door. As he started out of the room, Cardinal Mendosa said quietly, “Habemus Papam, son, and this one’s going to knock your socks off,” and paid no attention to the sudden, shocked look Father Viernes shot him.

As he hurried toward the Vatican library, Cardinal Mendosa considered all the ways he could make the announcement. In the end, he did the most simple thing: he entered the reading room quietly, hoping for a break in the continuing dispute that would permit him to speak.

But Cardinal Tayibha caught sight of him and nudged Cardinal Pingari, who signaled to Cardinal Hetre, and very shortly the room fell silent.

Cardinal Mendosa remained where he was. “I’ve had a call,” he said in a low voice. “And the answer is yes.” He did not linger to hear all the exclamations and discussion, but withdrew from the room. He wanted to visit the Sistine Chapel, to gaze at Michelangelo’s enormous vision where he could lose himself for a short time in all the grandeur. But he started back to his office to begin the complicated process of bringing the new Pope to Rome, and to inform the world that something extraordinary had happened.

* * *

“Oh, Jesus-bloody-Christ!” President Carey swore, then looked at Cardinal Bradeston. “Pardon, Your Eminence.”

Cardinal Bradeston, in full scarlet finery, smiled tolerantly, his offence modified by his own ambivalent reaction to the news. “I do understand the feeling. Some of the Cardinals share it, though they don’t express it quite the same way.” He hoped the President would not be so put out that he would cut their interview short. “I am sure others will share your sentiments.”

“I can just bet.” Houghton Carey sat down; behind him the windows were dark. He had come from a formal dinner, and he unfastened his black velvet tie as he went on. “Well, it’s certainly unexpected, I’ll say that for it. You tell me a woman’s been elected Pope, not two years after the Church decided that women could not be priests. When you asked for help getting someone out of China, I didn’t think this was the reason.”

“What did you think it was?” asked Alexander, Cardinal Bradeston, curious to know which of the various rumors the President believed.

“I thought she had some information about those priests who disappeared in China during the Sixties. I assumed that there was a move to elect one of them, but you needed to find someone who could tell you if any of them were still alive and sane. Or something like that.” He stared down at the glossy surface of his desk. “A Chinese woman Pope. Now that’s pretty amazing.”

“It’ll be in the media in the next thirty minutes,” said Cardinal Bradeston with a fatalistic sigh. “We’re trying to prepare major world leaders, give them a little time to come up with a comment.” He hesitated. “And we need help getting her out.”

“I said you ought to talk to the Secretary of State. I don’t want to get mixed up directly in this.” He almost added mess but bit it off in time.

“Certainly; Cardinal Durand and I have an appointment with her tomorrow morning. But you understand that we do not want to talk with her until you are aware of what we intend to ask, and the reason we must ask it. It would not be proper to do it any other way, would it?” The corners of his mouth twitched but it was far from a smile.

Houghton Carey’s eyes filled with ironic humor. “Don’t miss a trick. It’s sixteen hundred years’ practice, I guess.” He held up his hand. “Don’t dispute the time; the Church didn’t swing much weight until then, and you know it.”

“Conceded,” said Cardinal Bradeston, going on with more emphasis. “You’ll allow us to ask the Secretary of State to act—”

“Let me call Abby and find out what she has to say. Right now. You stay right here, so you’ll know what I tell her, okay?” He said it genially enough but it was clearly an order, and Cardinal Bradeston, who disliked being ordered about, nodded grudgingly.

“Sandy,” said the President to his secretary in the outer office, “Will you get Abigail Corleon for me? Thank you.” He put his phone on mute and regarded the Bostonian Cardinal speculatively. “Pope. I…I can’t get over it. You sure about this?”

“It hardly matters if I’m sure,” said Cardinal Bradeston stiffly. “We’ve elected her twice.”

“Is that important?” asked the President.

“Yes,” said Cardinal Bradeston. “We think so.”

The phone buzzed and President Carey motioned to Cardinal Bradeston to silence. “Abby, Tony. Sorry to disturb you when you have guests; it’s urgent. I’ve got Cardinal Bradeston here.… Yeah, I know you’re seeing him tomorrow.… He’s just told me something you better know about in advance: that Chinese woman we heard about? Well, the College of Cardinals somehow or other elected her Pope.… You’re telling me. Anyhow, they have to get her out of China and they think we might be able to help. There’re a lot of Catholics in this country. Maybe we better do something.”

“Mister President.…” Cardinal Bradeston began.

But President Carey was answering a question from his Secretary of State. “I think we better have a statement for the media. We won’t mention the problem of getting her out yet; we’ll say just the usual blather, how surprised we are, the changes it will bring to the world—which for once is the truth—how we’ll have to wait and see how Catholics respond to this new development—” He laughed. “Well, you’ll handle it right.” He listened again, nodded. “I’ll be glad to. And thanks. It’s a pain in the ass to be interrupted by this kind of news.… Yeah, there’s lots of worse news to be interrupted with.” This time he chuckled, then thanked her and hung up. “She’s asking you to arrange to come to the rear entrance at State in the morning. She’s certain the streets will be crawling with reporters looking for anything in a cassock.”

“She’s probably right,” said Cardinal Bradeston sourly.

“No doubt about it. You’ll have The Washington Post on one side and CBS News on the other and all the international services bringing up the rear if you try to go in the front.” He studied Cardinal Bradeston. “How long have you known about this?”

“A few hours; not very long,” answered Cardinal Bradeston. “I was told of her acceptance when I arrived at Dulles. There was a call waiting for me. I got in at nine-forty. Word came in Rome a little after two a.m., relayed through Hong Kong.”

“So it’s getting known. The morning news will be full of it. That’s something.” He pursed his lips speculatively. “Well, at least it’s night in Europe. That’ll give you Cardinals a little time to put yourselves in order. And there’s a lot to get in order. Any idea when she’ll arrive in Rome?”

“None,” said Cardinal Bradeston. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Right,” said President Carey.

* * *

It was almost four in the morning when Cardinal van Hooven placed his call to Metropolitan Gosteshenko in Moscow. He knew that the Russian rose at six for morning prayers. “Good day, old friend,” he said when Pavel Gosteshenko growled at him.

“Ah, Piet. Good day to you as well,” he said, his voice sharpening as sleep left him. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

“We have had word from China,” said Cardinal van Hooven.

“Ah,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko warily.

“Truly,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “She has agreed.”

“Ah,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko again.

“We are about to approach the Premier of China—not directly, of course—to request she be allowed to leave China for the Vatican.” He said it as if this were the most ordinary situation in the world.

“And who is going to make this approach?” asked Metropolitan Gosteshenko. “I fear I will not be of any assistance to you.”

“We were hoping to find a Protestant or someone who isn’t Christian at all,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “The People’s Republic of China would probably like it if we could find an atheistic diplomat from a Third World country with a degree in theology and thirty years’ experience in international relations. Since we haven’t found one of those yet, we’re doing what we can. We are going to the United Nations for assistance, at least to begin with, and the major powers. We also have contacts with those who have some ties to China and Premier Zuo.” He spoke with the serene confidence that might be nothing more than sleepiness.

“Then what do you need of me?” asked Metropolitan Gosteshenko.

This time Cardinal van Hooven hesitated. “I would appreciate it if you would be willing to speak with the authorities there, in Russia, to request that no action be taken that might interfere with our negotiations. I realize that this is a tremendous thing to ask of you; and I know that you do not necessarily have any say in what happens at such levels in the government, but I must do what I can. Your country could make this very difficult for us, especially if your intelligence community becomes determined to…to create obstacles for us. We may be the opiate of the masses, but sniping at us for recreation doesn’t help when we’re trying to resolve a delicate situation, such as this one.” He waited for Metropolitan Gosteshenko to speak; when no comment came, he went on. “You can appreciate why such action concerns us, I am certain. You know what it is like for those of us in the Church, attempting to reach a government that does not recognize us at all. It would take very little for that lack of recognition to become an insurmountable barrier to all our efforts.”

“True enough,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko. “Very well, Piet. I will do what I can, but that might not be very much.”

“Anything will have my thanks and my prayers,” said Cardinal van Hooven. He looked out through the curtains at the darkness, imagining the bulk of Saint Peter’s. “I would provide more if I could.”

“That day may come,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko. “These are very uncertain times, my friend.”

“They are,” agreed Cardinal van Hooven. “I will keep you informed of our progress, if you like.”

“Do, whether I like it or not,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko, doing his best to laugh so that Cardinal van Hooven would understand he was making a joke. “I would rather be upset than off-guard on this occasion. There are too many unknowns where your new Pope is concerned.”

“There are many hazards for all of us,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “That is why we need that woman here.”

Metropolitan Gosteshenko gave Cardinal van Hooven a Russian blessing before he hung up.

* * *

Her quarters in the guest house in Xi’an were small; Zhuang Renxin was not dismayed to find she had only two rooms, for that seemed more than reasonable, given the reason for her presence. She had been driven there from the airport almost an hour ago, then left with the assurance that she was a guest of the People. The summons that had brought her here had arrived less than an hour after her call to Dame Leonie, and she had been surprised only because it had taken so long to reach her.

She stood before the mirror in her cramped little bathroom and combed her hair. There would be another twenty minutes before the car arrived to take her to her private and unofficial interview with Premier Zuo. Ordinarily she would not have been nervous, but today she was jittery; her hands would not remain still, and the slight, constant trembling embarrassed her as much as the occasion for her presence. She examined her jacket, worried that stains might have appeared on it in the last few minutes. As she chided herself for this foolishness, she peered at her face to be certain there was no blemish on her chin or cheek. Then she combed her hair again.

The driver was not in uniform, but his bearing was military and the way in which he greeted her was perilously close to a salute. He made no comments about the city as he drove the short distance to the cluster of governmental buildings, confining his remarks to occasional warnings about the traffic. Only when he stopped the car did he tell her anything about her visit, though it was little enough. “It is the third door on the left. They are expecting you, Worthy Magistrate.”

“You are most helpful,” said Magistrate Zhuang as she closed the door. While she was not frightened, her apprehension increased as she walked up the short flight of stairs and found the third door on the left.

A guard requested her name and admitted her, escorting her along a narrow, doorless, tunnel-like hallway. He showed her into a small sitting room at the end of the corridor and told her to wait. Then he left her alone.

Premier Zuo let Magistrate Zhuang sit for almost fifteen minutes before he came through the interior door, bowing slightly to her as he did. “Worthy Magistrate.”

She rose at once and offered him a formal bow, proud that her parents had drilled her in the correct show of deference to all stations of persons. “Premier,” she said respectfully, a little awed that so august a person would actually be willing to speak with her. Until this moment she had not been wholly certain the meeting would truly occur. But the last few days had been filled with unanticipated events, she told herself, hoping that she would not behave improperly.

He sat down, but did not gesture for her to do the same; he began without preamble. “I have seen the report of your visitors, and I have been informed of their requests.”

Magistrate Zhuang bowed again but said nothing. She knew it would be incorrect to volunteer information until it was requested.

“It is quite an unusual event, Worthy Magistrate, if my information is accurate. According to the report, a Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church has informed you of your election as Pope. I understand you have accepted the post.” He looked at her at last. “Is this true?”

She bowed a third time. “Yes.”

“Will you please tell me how this came about?” Premier Zuo requested in a voice that warned her of the danger of refusing.

Magistrate Zhuang had to restrain her desire to assure Premier Zuo that she would never defy the leader of China. Prudently all she did was incline her head. “I was visited by Charles Ruy Mendosa, who came to tell me that the College of Cardinals, of which he is a member, has elected me to that position. I did not believe him at first, but he has convinced me. I questioned him most thoroughly, Worthy Premier.”

“You spoke with him for some considerable time,” said Premier Zuo, neither accusation nor praise in the statement.

“Yes. He, a British journalist, and their Chinese driver came to my house. I arranged for my neighbor’s wife to serve as chaperon. Cardinal Mendosa explained to me how the election is done and what had happened on two separate occasions. He said it would not be fitting for them to proceed until I had been located and given the opportunity to serve. They are obliged to do this because I was elected twice, and that creates certain demands.” She repeated this as if she were reciting a lesson, but as the words came, she began to realize how unlikely it all sounded. “He was very persuasive.”

“He must have been,” said Premier Zuo. “You have agreed to do this, I have been told.”

“Yes,” she said. “If what Cardinal Mendosa says is true, I have a duty to the Church to direct it, since the authority has, apparently, been given to me.” Her eyes met his.

Premier Zuo indicated the chair opposite his own. “We must talk.”

Magistrate Zhuang sat down very carefully, moving as if she expected Premier Zuo to change his mind and keep her standing; her back was very straight. “Of what do you wish to talk, Worthy Premier?”

“Your decision. And before you go on, I want you to understand that you are not to tell anyone anything of what we say. In fact, I want you to deny that this meeting ever took place. If you are asked why you were flown to Xi’an, you are to say that certain government officials had questions to ask you about the foreigners who visited you. Nothing more. No one is to be identified. You must not reveal we have spoken. Is that clear?”

“Yes. I will certainly do as you wish, Worthy Premier,” she responded quickly. “I am gratified to do this for you.”

“Very good,” said Premier Zuo. He reached down and lifted a small brass bell. As he rang it, he said, “I want to know about this man, the Cardinal. How did he describe the Church to you?”

“He described it as corrupt and venal, filled with deceptions and abuses,” Magistrate Zhuang answered at once. “He said that the only person who has the power to end this venality is the Pope, and that it would be a difficult task even for her. He said that if I condemn what the Church is, I am obliged to bring about its change if I am given the opportunity. He believes that there is a religious reason that I have been selected.” She ducked her head.

“Religious?” Did he tell you about the political nature of the Church?” asked Premier Zuo, a bit startled. He had not anticipated that Cardinal Mendosa might be candid with Magistrate Zhuang.

Once again she answered promptly. “He said that he did not have time to unravel it all. He told me that men have devoted the studies of lifetimes to Vatican politics and never comprehended them. It is very complicated, involving many countries and peoples, and many organizations within and without the Church. There is also a great deal of money controlled by the Church, and that is one of the most important issues in the world today.”

“Your Cardinal Mendosa is a very direct man, it appears.” Premier Zuo looked up as a young man discreetly presented himself. “We will take tea in the courtyard in half an hour.” He motioned the young man away.

“You are very gracious, Worthy Premier,” said Magistrate Zhuang. She decided to speak her mind, though she did her best to present her thoughts tactfully. “It is an exceptional honor, Worthy Premier, being called to speak with you, one that I never expected to be accorded me; I am more gratified than I can express for the attention you have shown me, undeserving as I am.”

“If you are deserving of the notice of the Catholic Church in Rome,” said Premier Zuo with asperity, “then you are also deserving of the attention of your country.” He folded his hands. “Worthy Magistrate, you do not appear to realize how remarkable your position is.” He paused so that he would have her complete attention. “The Roman Catholic Church is the enemy of the Revolution and of the People, a cruel oppressor that binds the mind with mental chains; and for those who are under its rule, their lives are made harder because of it. For hundreds and hundreds of years the Church has wrung gold and heart out of its subjects, and still it is venerated as an institution dedicated to the welfare of its followers. It controls the lives of millions and influences millions more, all for the power of the Church in the world. The clergy are perverted and corrupt, the leaders are ambitious, ruthless and venal.”

“I said as much to Cardinal Mendosa,” Magistrate Zhuang told Premier Zuo when he let her speak. “And for the most part he agreed.”

“A clever man, one who has learned to make his way in the Church,” Premier Zuo discounted him. “It would be wise to question everything he says, for his motives are unclear and his position makes him suspect.”

“All those things are true. But his arguments impressed me, for he is aware of the hazards of his station. More than that, I think,” said Magistrate Zhuang with sincerity. “He is one who believes that the soul is real, and he wishes to tend to the souls of his followers, but he is more concerned for the Church, which has failed in its duty to its people.” She knew better than to smile, but there was a softening at the corners of her eyes. “What the Church is supposed to do is worthy: what is reprehensible is that it has failed so utterly to do it.”

“And exploited the people in the process. Cardinal Mendosa has presented his case very persuasively, I see,” said Premier Zuo. “I keep to my original opinion, Worthy Magistrate, that he is a clever man and a capable politician who will manipulate you as readily as he will take money from the poor.” He rose, and she did the same. “I want you to come with me and we will review names on a list I have brought. I want to know everything he has told you about all of them.”

“He did not say much about the other Cardinals, if that is what you seek to learn, Worthy Premier. I do not wish to disappoint you; I think it best that I warn you that I cannot tell you more than a few superficial things.”

“If that is all you can do, then it will be acceptable if it is the totality of your understanding,” said Premier Zuo, already trying to think of ways to thwart her attempts to take up her position in Rome. Her unique situation could very well be useful to him, providing he did not relinquish his control of her. As long as he kept her here yet permitted her contact with the Cardinals, he would be able to finger the pulse of the Church throughout the world; it would suit his purposes very well to know what the Church was doing without the inconvenience of officially recognizing its existence.

“I will do everything I can to give you the information you seek,” said Magistrate Zhuang.

“Excellent,” said Premier Zuo, his smile widening. “Excellent.”

* * *

“You look like you could use a good night’s sleep,” said Willie Foot to Cardinal Mendosa as they sat over coffee in the darkest corner of the restaurant across the street from Santa Maria della Pace. It was a few minutes after ten: news of the election of a Chinese woman to the Papacy was officially five hours old. Every radio, every television, every paper blared the story to the world, and offered commentary and reaction in bewildering variety.

“That would be a good start,” said Cardinal Mendosa, staring into the foaming steamed milk atop his caffe latte. He was in a dark business suit again, black cowboy boots on his feet and a silverbelly stetson, hung for the moment on the back of his chair. “It might also be a good idea to turn off all the telephones in the Vatican, but I don’t suppose that’s possible. And it probably wouldn’t do any good—they’d just call back again later, pissed as hell.” He made no apology for his language.

“Lots of calls?” asked Willie, anticipating the answer.

“Ringing off the walls. We’ve put a dozen more priests on the switchboards, but we’re still overloaded. Everyone wants to know how it happened, and hopes to get inside information. Some people are overjoyed, some are furious. We’re hearing from all of them, and everything in between as well. About ten percent think it’s a hoax. From where I sit, I can’t say I blame them. Justifying a miracle has never been easy, and now—”

“Isn’t that a little extreme?” Willie suggested.

“You think so?” Cardinal Mendosa asked, picking up his latte and trying a sip. “Nope, too hot.” He set it down again. “Suppose you heard about this as a rumor, not through me, but just a rumor. What would you assume about it? If you had any sense at all, you’d think it was sham, and not very good.”

“Maybe, but I’d ask you, just in case.” He bit into a flaky breakfast pastry, noticing that Cardinal Mendosa had eaten nothing.

“That’s hindsight, my friend,” said Cardinal Mendosa slowly. “You were there. You know what’s been going on. But everyone else out there only knows what’s on the evening news—and the morning news, and the noon news, and the news spots—and they assume that we’re trying to put one over on them. One South American paper thinks we’re trying to cover up another death in the College of Cardinals, and this is a smokescreen for the cover-up.” He leaned back. “And in a couple of days, I’ve got to get the ball rolling with Premier Zuo.”

“To get her out?” asked Willie.

“To get me back in. And you as well, if you want to come.” He coughed. “Getting her out is going to be a lot more difficult. Don’t be deceived by the goodwill that we seem to have coming out of China; Premier Zuo isn’t about to let us have Magistrate Zhuang without a fight. They’ve let us reach her, but that doesn’t mean that she’ll be allowed out. It would mean Zuo had to admit the Church exists, and he’s not going to do that unless we nail him to the wall. No crucifixion pun intended.” He picked up his latte and took a long drink of it, not caring that it was still too hot.

“Are you certain about that?” Willie realized he knew the answer already. “You’re right, of course. It would mean losing face internationally, giving her permission to come here. He won’t tolerate that. So how will you deal with him?”

“I don’t know, not for sure. But first things first, and that means I go back to China. Then we’ll let all that diplomatic machinery start clanking along.” He peered into the street. “In the next day or so, we’re going to be besieged here in Rome, worse than when the barbarians were at the gates. Everyone in the Catholic world will be coming here to make themselves heard. For once you can bet they aren’t going to bow their heads and accept what the Cardinals do as being the true expression of God’s will, not without demanding some explanation. And the non-Catholics will be here, too. It’s going to be a bitch.” He poked at his pastry with a fork. “You know, I love these things, and this morning I can’t bring myself to eat.”

“Then don’t,” Willie recommended, starting on his second one.

Cardinal Mendosa stuck his fork in the pastry again, as if testing its interior, then stared at it. “No. Not this morning,” he said regretfully. He picked up his latte again, and sipped. “Coffee jangles all day, but all things considered, that’s minor.” He laughed once, the sound harsh.

Willie finished his second pastry and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “When do you think we’ll leave?”

“What?” Cardinal Mendosa had been distracted, his eyes focused at some point three feet beyond the wall. “Leave?”

“For China, dear boy,” said Willie. “You do need a translator still, and I’m having the time of my life with this. I’m on the inside, and you and Nigel No are the only other ones. You aren’t going to write about it, and Nigel has promised Dame Leonie that he won’t divulge anything about our trip. Which leaves yours faithfully. I’ve already had four calls from publishers who want books from me.”

“That was predictable,” said Cardinal Mendosa blandly. “What have you told them?”

“That the story isn’t finished yet; they can talk to me when it is. And in the meantime, I’m piling up notes galore. I’m going to retire on this adventure of ours, and the best part of it is that I love it.” He picked up his espresso doppio and drank half of it. “You tell me when you want to leave and I’ll be ready in two hours. Less, if necessary.”

“I hope it’ll be soon,” said Cardinal Mendosa wistfully, then achieved a single, rough laugh. “For one thing, if I stick around here, I’m going to peel the hide off Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung, mortal sin or not.” He slapped his palm on the zinc table top. “You didn’t hear that.”

“Deaf as the proverbial post,” said Willie, understanding why Cardinal Mendosa was so harried, but enjoying himself hugely. “Any word from Magistrate Zhuang, other than yes?”

“Not yet. Dame Leonie told us that she’d heard Magistrate Zhuang was flown to Xi’an earlier today. The official word is that some of the government honchos want to pick her brains about our visit, but the best rumor is that the honcho is Zuo himself.” He had the last of the latte and signaled the waiter for a second one. “I’ll be on the ceiling for hours, but who’s going to notice?”

Willie saw the worn look on the Texas Cardinal’s face, and the light in his eyes. “You all right, Charles?”

Cardinal Mendosa glanced at him, then looked away. “Probably,” he said after a short hesitation. “But this whole thing is taking a toll on me, and there’s no doubt about it.” He lowered his eyes. “I wish I had a magic wand, something I could just wave and all the red tape and bullshit would disappear, and Zhuang Renxin would be here, where the Church would welcome her wholeheartedly.” He shoved his chair back a little. “Officially the Church believes in miracles.”

“You’re being cynical, Your Eminence,” said Willie, hearing the despair at the back of the Cardinal’s words.

“You learn to be, in this job. The same way you learn to be in yours.” He rubbed his eyes. “Cardinal Gemme is supposed to go on Gordon Mennell’s program tomorrow to explain what has happened and why Magistrate Zhuang is about to become Pope of the Catholic Church, providing we can manage the diplomatic footwork.” He shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. He might love those lights and cameras, but I don’t think he’s going to have any fun this time.”

“Very media-wise, is Gemme,” said Willie.

“You don’t approve?” Cardinal Mendosa asked, picking up on the faint condemnation in Willie’s apparent praise.

“Well, it doesn’t make any sense, but no, I don’t. It strikes me as a little smarmy when a member of the clergy is so savvy and polished and…smee-ooth.” As he said this last he stroked the air as if it were glossy fur.

“He can be that,” said Cardinal Mendosa with a one-sided smile. He handed the waiter a tip as his second latte appeared. “And right now, I’m glad we have him. But you’re right about him being smooth, and that also means he’s slippery.”

“My very point,” said Willie. He fell silent, staring out into the bustle and beauty of Rome: it was a wonderful morning, bright and not too hot yet; a flock of tourists—Germans by the look of them—were headed in the general direction of the Tiber, and the bridges that crossed to the Vatican.

“We’ve got it on good authority that the whole city’s going to fill up in the next several days,” said Cardinal Mendosa distantly as he, too, studied the tourists who had attracted Willie’s attention.

“Surely you expected that,” said Willie, but without much interest. “Whenever something happens about Popes, Rome fills up with tourists. It’s been that way for a millennium.”

Cardinal Mendosa raised his hand in protest. “Don’t say that word.”

“What word?” Willie asked. “Tourist?”

“Millennium,” said Cardinal Mendosa heavily. “It’s becoming a real issue. Thanks to Magistrate Zhuang, we’ve already had one salvo fired at us from the Fundamentalists. Reverend Marcus has warned his flocks throughout the good old U.S. of A. that since it’s almost 2000, the election of a woman to the Papacy is the fulfillment of the prophesy of the reign of the Antichrist.” His expression showed the depth of his disgust for only an instant, then turned wry. “He milked forty minutes out of that theme about an hour after the announcement was made. My secretary has had calls from priests all over Texas and Oklahoma about the harangue he calls a sermon. Reverend Williamson hasn’t been heard from yet, but I assume his views will be very much the same; Reverend Williamson has been riding the millennium for all it’s worth for over a year now. He’s going to be in his glory over the new Pope.”

“But people don’t take him that seriously. They can’t,” said Willie.

“There’s where you’re wrong,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Maybe he’s considered a joke in Europe, but in America he’s serious business, and his following is getting larger and more militant every week.”

“But televangelists went out with the Bakkers, I thought,” said Willie.

“They might have gone out, but they’ve come back in again, and they’re talking hard-line Fundamentalist salvation and the end of the world. If they said Allah instead of Jesus, you’d think they were Shi’ites. And Reverends Marcus and Williamson are getting very rich and powerful.” He started to drink his second latte. ‘We have to get Magistrate Zhuang here as soon as possible. There’s too much pressure on the Church, and on Christians in general, for that matter,” said Cardinal Mendosa with conviction.

“Aren’t they supposed to be one and the same thing?” Willie teased.

But for once Cardinal Mendosa was not amused. “You know better than that. And you know how volatile people can get when their religion is being questioned. Don’t tell me it couldn’t turn ugly and violent; you know the history better than I do.” He had more latte and was left with a white moustache of steamed milk on his upper lip.

“Why not issue a statement of some kind?” Willie suggested.

“About what?” Cardinal Mendosa asked. “We’re still waiting for the dust to settle from our last announcement.”

“About…oh, I don’t know—charity, perhaps?” Willie gave his best benign grin. “How good it is to respect the beliefs of others?”

“Wouldn’t Reverend Williamson love that,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “He’d use it as a rallying cry for his audiences.”

“Audience, not congregation?” Willie inquired sweetly.

“What else do you call a large group of people who watch and support the same television show?” Cardinal Mendosa snapped, then looked away. “Sorry. Caffeine and lack of sleep.” He tapped the latte glass. “I probably shouldn’t finish this.”

“But you’re going to?” Willie said.

Cardinal Mendosa nodded. “And then I have to get back to work. I’ve got a trip to arrange.” He lifted his large glass and offered Willie a slight, ironic toast before he drank the rest in two long swallows.

Chapter 12

It was windy in The Hague, and Gunnar Hvolsvollur was still trying to restore order in his pale hair as he came into the meeting room. “I must apologize for being late,” he said in English.

Vitale, Cardinal Cadini beamed at him and responded in the same tongue, “In such weather it is not surprising that it takes time to get from place to place. I was told that tree branches have blown down in a few places.” He was in a business suit and for once wore his two lapel pins. “I am very pleased that you have been willing to speak with me.”

Gunnar Hvolsvollur nodded uncomfortably. “I was told you had been ill. I trust your health is better.” The inquiry was little more than a delaying tactic while he sized up the charismatic Cardinal Cadini; he looked around the small conference room. “Who else will be here?”

“Just you and I, Mister Secretary-General,” said Cardinal Cadini. “And thank you for your kindness: I am recovering very well for a man of my age.”

The Icelandic Secretary-General of the United Nations looked thoughtful. “I see.”

“This is unofficial, naturally, in spite of the setting,” Cardinal Cadini continued, as though unaware of the Secretary-General’s reservation. “We have entered a time unique in the history of the Church, of Christianity, I believe. We have no protocol to follow, so we must go…experimentally.”

Hvolsvollur decided not to respond directly. “Considering where we are, I would expect Cardinal van Hooven to be with you, or perhaps Cardinal Sclamonde from Belgium. It is a little surprising that you’ve come alone. Ordinarily wouldn’t I be speaking with two of you at least?” He took great care not to make his observation a criticism, though he was mildly offended as well as puzzled, and was rewarded with another one of Cardinal Cadini’s beneficent smiles.

“Ordinarily, yes; Cardinal van Hooven and I would be speaking with you, along with Cardinal Pingari and probably Cardinal Shumwoe or Cardinal Ochoa, as well, to cover all the bases. But as everyone is aware, these are not ordinary times in the Church and each of us has had unique tasks thrust upon us. I fear my days with your institution nominated me to speak to you, as the earlier works of others have become new work for them. You know, it is one of my most honored laurels, or so I tell myself, that I served the Vatican at the United Nations.” Now that he had accustomed his ear to the Icelandic cadences of Hvolsvollur’s English, he began to relax, aware that he spoke the language as well or better than the Secretary-General. He indicated a grouping of low chairs away from the more formal conference table. “Please; I think we’ll be more comfortable here.”

“Oh, of course.” Hvolsvollur’s manner, courteous and solicitous, was also guarded. “How thoughtless of me.” There were fine lace curtains over the tall windows, diffusing the soft afternoon light, rendering the dying storm in gauzy, wavering pastels. The draperies flanking the windows were of a soft green-grey, as was the upholstery of all the chairs in the room: the place was a paradigm of pleasant neutrality.

Cardinal Cadini laughed. “I’m not an invalid, Mister Secretary-General. I am merely someone who prefers to be at ease.” He was already sinking into one of the plump, round-armed chairs.

It was obvious that Hvolsvollur was not convinced, but he obediently selected the chair across from Cardinal Cadini and folded his long, strapping frame down into it. “We have had a very…well, a number of very strong reactions to your announcement of the new Pope.”

“So have we,” said Cardinal Cadini, not quite as affably as before. “Some of the Dominican nuns at Santissima Pieta have been dragooned into reading and sorting the mail we are receiving, and there are more priests on the switchboard than we’ve ever had.” He sighed. “The trouble is that we have elected her twice, and so our hands are tied. She must be Pope.”

The Secretary-General of the United Nations had been briefed on the process and protocol of Papal elections, and so he had no need of further explanation. “And apparently she has agreed.”

“Yes; for which we are all deeply thankful. Now we have an entirely new order of difficulty, for we are left with the business of bringing her to Rome.” His smile was still charming but weighted with fatigue. “We need the assistance of…a great many people, Mister Secretary-General, if we are to be allowed to bring this woman out of China.”

The Icelander’s steel-colored eyes narrowed. “Not everyone is in favor of that, are they?”

“No, they’re not,” said Cardinal Cadini openly. “And to be candid, many of them are within the Church. We have to circumvent their obstructions at the same time we are trying to cut international red tape. Dame Leonie Purcell in Hong Kong has said that she will be pleased to serve us in any way she can. She will be notifying you by letter of her willingness to assist. Since she did so much to ease the Hong Kong transition, you know how capable she is.” He leaned back awkwardly. “These seats are very deep; perhaps too deep for me. Either that, or my legs ought to be a little longer.”

Gunnar Hvolsvollur thought that the chairs were a bit too small, but kept his peace. “You were speaking of red tape.”

“Yes,” said Cardinal Cadini, prepared to return to their topic. “You are well-aware that the Holy See has no direct connections to the People’s Republic of China. In fact, the Church is regarded in much the same light as the die-hard Shi’ites view the USA. This makes it all very complicated. We must approach sideways, like a crab. For that, we need the support and endorsement of countries and institutions recognizing and recognized by the Church and the PRC. The United Nations is one such institution.”

“It is rather a weak one at present,” said Hvolsvollur carefully. “I’m afraid the Albanian crisis still haunts us.”

“I’m sorry for that,” said Cardinal Cadini sincerely. “But there is no reason that makes it wholly impossible for you to assist us, is there? Your Chinese delegation could be empowered to pass on your request for cooperation, couldn’t they? Especially with some help from Dame Leonie?” His face shone with hope. “The Church does not intend to make this any more official than is absolutely necessary, for we do not want to do anything that might compromise the work of the United Nations. That support cannot be unilateral I know. It need not be a formal proclamation, or public endorsement, or anything beyond a simple note. But we would count it a very special favor if you were to aid us.”

Hvolsvollur glared. “You do not grasp the implications of your request. It would be extremely delicate, Your Eminence.”

“Yes,” said Cardinal Cadini blandly. “I am very much aware of that. And I accept that I have no direct authority where you are concerned. Iceland has a national church that is a brand of Lutheranism, doesn’t it? I can understand why this negotiation would be an embarrassment—you have your own religion to consider as well as the rejection of religion in the PRC.” He nodded, his little raisin eyes bright with compassion. “But there are millions of people who are relying on us to bring them their Pope, who was summoned of God. And for once, few of those people will be able to say that we are rotating favor through the older Cardinals. Nine of the Cardinals are over eighty, and with this election, any hope they might have had of their elevation must end, even in these days of increased longevity. I am not quite old enough to be of their number, and I do not aspire to the Throne of Saint Peter, but it is sobering to know that my opportunity is gone.” He regarded Hvolsvollur steadily. “If it is possible to have a Pope untainted by Catholicism, we have one now. Or we will have, if we can bring her to Rome and place the tiara on her head.”

There had been several occasions in the past when Secretary-General Hvolsvollur had taken the Catholic Church to task for being reactionary, self-serving and insular; Cardinal Cadini’s mild challenge struck at the heart of Hvolsvollur’s beliefs. “It would seem that Beijing is the place you should visit, not Cabbage Patch,” he said, using the irreverent nick-name of The Hague.

“Beijing is not exempt, Mister Hvolsvollur, but pragmatically inaccessible. We must find a way to reach the PRC,” said Cardinal Cadini with the same steady good-will as before. “We are obliged to try every means we can think of to bring our new Pope to us.”

“And what of your people who are determined to keep her away?” He hurried on in case Cardinal Cadini wanted to protest. “You have admitted that there are those in the Church who are not in favor of her reign; they have already started undermining your efforts to bring her out of China. My office has received two visits already from high-ranking Churchmen who do not want this to occur. Their concerns were well-expressed, as yours are, and appeared equally valid. Their visits were unofficial and confidential, so I cannot reveal who they are. You ask me to help bring the woman to Rome: they asked me to do all that I can to prevent that eventuality. They have reasons which are to them as cogent as yours are to you. They do not want the U.N. or any other organization offering support to any action aimed at bringing that Chinese widow to Rome.” He paused, trying to assess Cardinal Cadini’s reaction, but without success. “We have assured them we would do nothing, either to help or to hinder, and we will offer no suggestions to any of our member nations in this regard. I assured your colleagues of our continuing non-involvement; and I will now assure you of it.”

Cardinal Cadini nodded but without obvious disappointment. “Is that your final decision?”

“I’m afraid it must be,” said Secretary-General Hvolsvollur, for once truly regretful; he hated saying no to Cardinal Cadini. “We have made every effort to keep religious conflicts out of the United Nations and—”

“Such as Israel and Palestine? And the rest of the Arab world, for that matter? Or Bangladesh? I recall when I was representing the Vatican at the U.N.—and, as I have said, I was truly privileged to do so—I was asked to support various non-Catholic efforts in those conflicts. But I take your point, that the Vatican is a religious state, which makes it suspect, I suppose?” Cardinal Cadini suggested without heat. “Those events had larger world implications, and there was a religious component to the trouble, as I remember.”

Gunnar Hvolsvollur was much too experienced a diplomat to squirm, but he had to admit that Cardinal Cadini’s comments stung. “The peace we have cobbled together in those regions might not hold.”

“And the United Nations may have to answer for it if the peace fails,” said Cardinal Cadini with real concern. “I am aware of how precarious the peace is: the last people killed before the Bangladesh truce went into effect were a party of nursing nuns, sent their for humanitarian relief.” He crossed himself. “May God lift up their souls.”

“Yes.” Hvolsvollur stared over the promontory of his knees toward his feet. “It is lamentable that we cannot assist you, but I can see you appreciate how difficult our position is.”

“I can see that, yes,” said Cardinal Cadini. He gave a long sigh, then favored Hvolsvollur with another smile, this one rueful. “Well, I thank you for your time and your frankness. You’ve been attentive and direct, which is a refreshing change from what I have endured these past three days.” He pushed himself forward in the chair. “I won’t keep you any longer, Mister Secretary-General. You are a very busy man and you have better things to do than try to find pleasant ways to say no to an old man.”

As Hvolsvollur rose to his feet, he said, “If things were otherwise, I would be more than pleased to lend my encouragement to your efforts.”

Cardinal Cadini, who was half out of his chair, stopped as if something new had just occurred to him. “Do you mean that if some other institution or agency were to give the Church aid, you would support it?”

Too late Hvolsvollur saw the trap. “It’s possible,” he admitted, suddenly very cautious.

Cardinal Cadini straightened up. “Well, thank you; I’ll keep that in mind, Mister Secretary-General.” He held out his hand. “Who knows? It might be useful.”

Gunnar Hvolsvollur shook Cardinal Cadini’s small, firm, plump hand, and fought down a niggle of panic; the amiable little Cardinal had beaten him at his own game.

* * *

Under the very bright lights Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme looked pale. His attractive features were more worn and a little of his high gloss had faded. This was his third major television interview in as many days, and he was feeling the strain. For the first time in his life he was starting to dislike the attention he received.

“Don’t worry, Your Eminence,” said the newsman who would be conducting the interview, an open-faced American with an easy manner and the instincts of a wolverine. “We’ll cover the ground we discussed. Nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about?” Cardinal Gemme repeated. “If you understood the magnitude of what’s taken place, you wouldn’t say that.” Such a caustic response was unlike him and he apologized at once: it wouldn’t do to get Crane’s back up before the program began. “I ask your pardon. I’m afraid some of those who have been asking questions of late have no concept of the significance of this election.”

“Um-hum,” said the newsman, taking his place at right angles to Cardinal Gemme. “How are we for levels, Mike?”

From somewhere in the dark there came an answer. “You’re fine. Ask the Cardinal to give us a few more words, will you?”

The newsman started to speak, but Cardinal Gemme cut him off. “I’d appreciate it if you’d direct questions for me to me.”

“That’s fine for levels,” said the invisible Mike.

“We’re about two minutes to air,” said the newsman. “We’ll be counting down now.” He made himself comfortable as one of the three cameras dollied in closer. “How many times have you been on my show now, Your Eminence?”

Cardinal Gemme pulled himself back from his preoccupation. “This will make it five times, I think.” He folded his hands, then unfolded them and put them on the arms of his chair. No, he decided, folded was probably better. “The first time was in ‘94. You were in Rome for the World Council on Hunger and Famine.”

“Hey, that’s right,” said the newsman—who had watched the tape of that interview only two hours ago—as the music came up.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” said the announcer’s voice from his vantage point in the director’s box. “And welcome to…Conversations with Daniel Crane. This evening Daniel Crane will be speaking with Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme, of the Roman Catholic Church.”

Daniel Crane gave a steady, piercing look to the camera, and began. “Announcements from the Vatican and the Roman Catholic Church over the last few days have been the most startling of any I can recall, and may be unique in the history of the Church. The revelation that an Asian non-Catholic has been elected Pope of the Church was so completely unexpected that apparently no specific plans have been put into motion to bring the new Pope to Rome. Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme, can you tell me why this is?”

Cardinal Gemme was not fooled by the innocence of the question. He gathered his wits and reminded himself he would have to be very careful how he answered Crane if his remarks were not to backfire. “Well, as you have so accurately pointed out, Mister Crane, we have never had to make such arrangements before. The election of this Pope is without precedence, but not contrary to our theology and dogma. Certainly there have been times in history when the election went to someone who was not a Cardinal, or even a priest, for that matter. And there have been times when the Pope elected was not in Rome and could not easily return there.” He hesitated. “But those elections are long in the past, many hundreds of years ago. This time we have elected someone wholly unknown to us. Finding her and bringing her here is of the highest priority, but we lack the diplomatic means to do this.”

“The person elected Pope is a Chinese woman, is that right?” Daniel Crane asked politely.

“Yes; she lives in Szechwan Province near the town of Hongya. She is a Magistrate there, a widow, forty-one years old.” He had been saying this so many times recently that the words made no sense to him now: they had become a litany of sorts.

“And Cardinal Mendosa of Houston, Texas, has actually met and spoken with this woman?” Daniel Crane let a note of doubt creep into his delivery, as if he thought the whole story might be a tall tale, or a new public relations trick to be foisted on the unsuspecting public.

“Yes,” said Cardinal Gemme, ignoring the sub-text in the question. “He sought her out and told her of the election. He spent many hours with her and their translator, explaining what had happened and what the office entailed. He asked her if she would be willing to serve, then left to permit her to make her decision; she sent her answer a little over three days ago.” He was used to studio lights, but today they seemed unusually hot. Cardinal Gemme wished he had had the foresight to bring a small handkerchief to blot his upper lip. “As you know, she has accepted.”

“And what have you been doing about her acceptance?” Daniel Crane asked.

“We are trying to establish diplomatic corridors to arrange for her to come to Rome. We have made requests of many different agencies in the hope that the government of the People’s Republic of China will be willing to permit Zhuang Renxin to travel.” How ineffective he sounded in his own ears, how lacking in purpose and direction. He sensed that Daniel Crane was storing all this up, preparing to exploit his apparent laxness.

“That sounds like it could be difficult,” said Daniel Crane.

“It is, especially since the People’s Republic of China does not recognize the Roman Catholic Church. In very real terms, we do not exist, which makes dealing with the Chinese government difficult and complex.” He saw that his knuckles were turning white; he unfolded his hands.

“What success have you had, Your Eminence?”

When Daniel Crane used a title it was a bad sign. Cardinal Gemme steeled himself. “Nothing specific so far,” he said and went on before Crane could slip in another question. “But that’s only to be expected, when you realize that all our dealings are at least a two-stage process. The Church asks a government which has diplomatic relations with China to speak to the Chinese government on behalf of the Church, and when we must wait for what the Chinese government says to the government assisting us, you can see how it would take a great deal of time. And we must do this before we can start to arrange any sort of transfer.”

Daniel Crane nodded once, as if taking a sighting on a target. “Sounds like things could go wrong real easily.”

“Yes, which is why we cannot rush into these negotiations. We have to tread very carefully—”

This time Daniel Crane did not wait for an opening. “Is that why Cardinal Mendosa took off for Hong Kong this morning?”

So much for Cardinal Mendosa’s conviction that he could get to Hong Kong before the press knew he was out of Rome. Cardinal Gemme’s hands felt slick. “Cardinal Mendosa spoke with Magistrate Zhuang. He intends to serve as liaison between the Chinese government and the Holy See if Beijing is willing to allow it.” He wanted to say a word or two of apology to Cardinal Mendosa, for now the Texan would be mobbed when he arrived in Hong Kong, and might be hounded no matter where he went in China. Cardinal Gemme did not dislike Cardinal Mendosa—certainly not as much as some of the others did—but he felt that Cardinal Mendosa was not the best choice for a diplomatic mission of such magnitude.

“And what is the response from Beijing?” asked Daniel Crane smoothly.

“We have not established official contact as we would like yet; I’ve already explained the difficulties there. It is a priority of the highest order that we do, but when these dealings have to be established from the ground up, so to speak, it takes time, and it requires expert diplomacy.” He felt a little better now, for he had been over these issues thoroughly in the last two days and was fully abreast of current developments. “We do not want to compromise our position or embarrass our Pope by rushing through an ill-conceived approach to the People’s Republic.”

Daniel Crane looked grave. “What about the riots in Paris and Chicago and Manila? Our reporters there say that the people have vowed they will not accept a Pope who has any association with Communism.”

“It was my impression that Communism was less of a bogey-man than it used to be, but I gather that’s not the case.” He made a sound between a cough and a laugh. “Those riots are most unfortunate, and we in the Church are very much concerned that Catholics would be so un-Christian as to condemn anyone without any true knowledge of that person’s convictions or real beliefs.” This interview was not going well; he felt as if he were coming down with a fever. “We do not yet know to what degree this Magistrate Zhuang feels allegiance to the philosophy of Communism. We know she must belong to the Party to occupy her position, but as we have seen in recent years, that can mean many things. This Magistrate is spoken of as a just person, who strives to render fair decisions and uphold the law.”

“The law as it is promulgated from Beijing,” said Daniel Crane.

“I am not personally privy to her decisions, so I do not know. Just as I cannot explain to you or anyone else how Magistrate Zhuang regards Communism, which is being practiced a number of ways throughout the world in manners that would not be incompatible with the tenets of the Church.”

“But not in China,” said Daniel Crane.

“So it appears; but access to the Chinese people has been limited for most of us, and therefore I hesitate to make a judgment on her position as a Communist. We simply haven’t enough information yet to address the matter.” He saw the feral light in Crane’s eyes. “And whatever her political position, I must respect it.”

“And what do you say to those rioters?” Behind him, clips of the riot in Manila—the bloodiest of the three—appeared; police clubbing demonstrators at the gates of the palace of the Papal Nuncio. “They are risking their lives and their freedom to do this; how can you defend the decision of the Cardinals in the face of that?”

Cardinal Gemme stared down at his hands so that he would not have to look at the screen. “A cousin of mine was hurt in Paris, during that riot. You need not tell me how passionately Catholics are concerned about this new Pope, or how deep their allegiance to the Church is. But I cannot defend the Cardinals. The Cardinals did not choose Magistrate Zhuang—God did.”

This was the opportunity Daniel Crane had been waiting for. He pounced. “Washing your hands of it, Your Eminence? How do you justify your power if you will—”

“Excuse me, Mister Crane,” said Cardinal Gemme, resigned to botching the interview, “but I don’t think you understood me. I said that God chose Magistrate Zhuang. That is the entire basis for the doctrine of the Apostolic Succession. If the Pope were not the choice of God, the whole structure of the Church would be a deception. In this election, there could be no doubt, for we elected her unanimously twice. Had there been a less conclusive indication, we Cardinals, of all people in the Church, would be inclined to doubt the election: God moved each and every one of the Cardinals to write the name of this unknown Chinese woman, not once, but twice. None of us knew her. None of us knew of her. Very few of us write Chinese. Yet there was her name from every Cardinal. Twice.”

“That’s unbelievable,” Daniel Crane scoffed, revving up for another go at Cardinal Gemme.

“No,” said Cardinal Gemme quietly. “Technically, it’s a miracle.”

* * *

Dame Leonie held out her hand to Cardinal Mendosa after bestowing a warm smile on Willie Foot. Here at the edge of the walled garden there was still enough sunlight left to give the fading day a soft, preternaturally blue glow; the evening was going to be warm and close. “It is a pleasure to have you visit again so soon, Your Eminence.”

“I doubt it, but you’re a sweetheart for saying it,” Mendosa responded; he was feeling his jet-lag more keenly now than he had on the previous trip. He hardly noticed the two Scottish servants who took his bags and Willie’s rumpled jacket into the building. “I fixed my watch at the airport, but I still don’t believe the time. Any word from Beijing?”

She indicated a path at the edge of the garden leading toward the lanai; Mendosa and Willie followed her along it. “Officially not yet, but unofficially I’ve spoken with Premier Zuo, just yesterday, and he informed me that he would not prohibit your visit to his country, seeing you have been there already. No matter what ignorance he claims, he’s been following this very closely.” She was too experienced to laugh aloud, but there was a sharper glint in her eyes. “He is planning to play you like a trout on a line.”

“Oh?” said Mendosa as if this were of no interest to him whatsoever. “Why do you think so?”

“Because he’s being too gracious and asking too few questions. That’s a dangerous pattern with him. Where Premier Zuo Nangkao is most concerned, he asks the least at first where he intends to garner the most in the long run. He likes to go slowly, when he thinks there’s a prize to be had. So if I were you, Your Eminence, I would—”

“You don’t need to use my title. My name’s fine while I’m here,” said Mendosa with an exhausted smile. “The way we did before.”

She nodded but was not distracted. “—be very careful how you deal with him. He’ll try to lull you into forgetting caution, or he’ll attempt to block you without being obvious about it, so that you will reveal more than you intended as a means of speeding things up.” She had led them to the lanai of the embassy compound; she slid back the huge glass doors and motioned them to come inside. “I don’t expect he will have word for us tomorrow or the next day. You might as well take advantage of the time and—”

“And learn a little Chinese,” said Mendosa. “I’ve already arranged for a short intensive, so I won’t be completely useless when we see Magistrate Zhuang again. I won’t be able to discuss metaphysics, perhaps, but I’ll be able to find out if her crops are doing well.” He caught the look of unexpected approval on Dame Leonie’s face. “Well, I do speak other languages than English, Latin, and Italian, Madame Ambassadress.”

“Spanish?” she ventured.

“A safe bet with a name like Mendosa,” he said. “Yes, Spanish, a smattering of French and German, and passable modern Greek. A little Russian, but not enough to do more than order a meal. I can swear some in Turkish. Does that surprise you?”

“Somewhat,” she said, and changed the subject. “I feel I’d better warn you that the press corps have been staking out the embassy for the last three hours. That’s one of the reasons we brought you in the back way. It is going to be difficult to get you out of here without someone noticing.” She lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry. We’ve been refusing commentary, but the fact of the matter is they know you’re here.”

“Do they?” said Mendosa. “Well, that will keep them all in one place, which is something.” He glanced over at Willie. “Falling asleep?”

“I did that a couple of hours ago,” said Willie, his eyes on Dame Leonie, his passion unhidden. “But I can fake passable conversation, if that’s necessary.”

Cardinal Mendosa shook his head. “Better wake up, then. I don’t think faked conversation is on the lady’s mind,” he said with faint, amused resignation. “You two go ahead and…catch up if you want to. I’m going to get some shuteye. You put me in the same room I had before, Ma’am? The one at the end of the hall on the left?”

If Dame Leonie was flustered, she concealed it very well. “Yes. And I’ve assigned Chi Xiyao to you when you wake. He’s had over twenty years as a valet; I think you’ll find him quite useful.”

“If I can try my Chinese out on him as the tutor works on me, fine,” said Mendosa. “Sounds like a good arrangement.” He started toward the hall, then stopped. “Speaking of tutors, this one’s named Wei Shenju. Brother Shenju, actually. He’s a Franciscan. He’s coming over from Macao. Should be here by the time I get up.” He concealed a yawn. “Well, thanks again, Dame Leonie.”

Willie stared at the parquetry floor of the enormous entry hall as Mendosa walked away from them. “I really appreciate you doing this for us,” he said, knowing they were observed.

“It’s all in a good cause,” she said lightly, slipping her hand through the curve of his elbow. “Before the sunset fades completely, let me show you something I think you’ll like. There’s an orchid in the greenhouse at the back of the garden that’s just coming into bloom.”

No longer sleepy, Willie met her eyes with delight. “You know how I love orchids,” he said, thinking that to him their code sounded so obvious, so transparent, that he marveled they had nerve enough to use it at all. He walked beside her out into the garden. As they hurried along the darkening path, he said, “Isn’t this place lit at night, or patrolled?”

“Most of it is,” said Dame Leonie, “But I have a few orchids in the greenhouse that require delicate care and low light. I managed to bring out a sleeping bag yesterday morning,” she added in a whisper.

It was hard to see now, and he picked his way awkwardly; then behind them the garden lights came on in full brilliance. Willie glanced back. “That’s damned impressive.”

“I suppose so. It’s not for beauty, it’s for security. We have special pressure-sensitive plates set in the top of the walls around the compound, and anything heavier than a cat coming over the wall sets off the alarms. As I recall, the plates are set for ten pounds.”

“Nine pounds of explosives could do a lot of damage,” said Willie, growing dubious.

“But it hasn’t happened so far. The wall on the outside is very brightly lit. It’s not easy to get close enough to throw a grenade or put up a ladder without exposing yourself to our guards.” She had reached the door of the greenhouse; she fished in her pocket for the key. “You really do have to be careful. I don’t want to ruin too many of these flowers if I can help it.”

“I’ll do what I can,” said Willie, amazed that she was so eager. Before, she had always been the careful, prudent one, because she was at risk; she was the one who had broken off their affair twice because of the potential disaster it could be for her. Yet now she was pulling him into her greenhouse.

There was the pungent scent of loamy air as the door opened and the darkness increased. Willie stepped into the warm, damp interior, remaining still while Dame Leonie found the concealed lights. “Won’t someone notice they’re on?”

“I hope so,” she said; a low, ruddy glow suffused the room. “I’ll need someone to say they’re certain we’ve been here because the lights are on. Besides, I’ve told Harding that you’re very keen on orchids, and I wanted you to see these.”

Willie frowned. “But won’t that make it worse?” He was whispering now, wondering if the place could be bugged.

“No. Once these lights are turned on, they automatically remain on for forty minutes. It reduces the shock to the plants. You can hold my attention for forty minutes, can’t you, Willie?” She had come back to his side, her arms going around him.

In that rare, lush near-darkness, Willie slid his hands into her perfectly ordered hair and gently tangled it as he kissed her, finding her mouth open to his. Around them the fragile, exotic plants were blurred in the pink twilight. While he still had his wits about him, Willie drew back enough to ask, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

For an answer she kissed him again, her tongue seeking his, her fingers working at his tie and shirt.

“I didn’t bring anything,” he warned her, thinking of the condoms in his suitcase, now useless in his room.

“I did,” she said softly.

So she had planned this from the first. He shivered as she dragged his shirt off him, but not for cold. The cuffs caught at his wrists, and suddenly both of them were laughing, tugging at his shirt in the dim-red light.

“Maybe I better do this,” he offered, glad now that he had not bothered to don his jacket when they arrived at the embassy.

“Fine,” she murmured, and pulled her soft silk blouse out of her skirt. She handled her clothes with care so they would not have any tell-tale smudges on them.

As they undressed their laughter faded.

“Where’s the sleeping bag?” he whispered as he put his shoes upside down on top of his folded clothes; it was odd, standing naked in this place.

“Over here,” she said softly from a place in the greenhouse where the shadows were deepest.

He made his way toward her with care, feet uncertain on the uneven planking that served as walkways; his hands were slightly extended to keep him from hitting the tables or damaging luxurious plants. He came erect as he walked.

She reached out to him, and knelt, pulling him down beside her. “I’ve been dreaming about nothing but you for weeks and weeks,” she said, her voice so low that he could barely hear it. She caught his earlobe in her teeth lightly, then started a careful progress of kisses along his jaw and down his neck. She felt his hands tremble from pleasure as he wrapped his arms around her, caressing her.

He drew her closer, moaning as the top of her thigh pressed against his swollen flesh. He wanted to ask her why—why now? why here? But the words slipped away from him as she began to work the condom over his cock, making the utilitarian act one of intense pleasure. Now there was only the opulence of her body and the sweetness of her love. He had not been aware of the pain of missing her until now, when he stretched out beside her on the sleeping bag. All those months, he realized, he had not been a reasonable adult, he had been numb. But no longer. Here with her, he was alive, and the hurt was gone as soon as he knew it for what it was. He nuzzled her breasts and the rise of her belly, and sensed her need, her passion as intensely as furnace heat.

It was too soon, he was sure it was too soon, but she moved under him and reached around him, pressing his back, fitting her hands to his buttocks, trying to bring them more closely together. He kissed her repeatedly, deeply and slowly, aware he might bruise her mouth. And then he went into her as if to fuse them into one being.

When it was over, he did not know if her orgasm or his own had shaken him more.

* * *

“This is a most…unexpected request,” said the Director-General of Russian Security. He had been in office only two years and already he was greyer and heavier than when he was sworn in. In another two years, he would be completely worn out.

Dmitri Karodin gave a single nod. There was a little moisture in his greying hair where the unexpected shower had caught him out a quarter of an hour ago. “Yes, Director-General,” he said, thinking the title was a cumbersome mouthful. At least he no longer had to include Comrade in the whole. “But I believe it is necessary or I would not be making it.”

“Yes,” said the Director-General. “Yes, I can see that.” His eyes appeared not quite in focus. “How long would you require for this mission, and why would you not send one of your own operatives instead of going yourself?”

There were several answers he might have given, each of which contained an element of truth: “I am frustrated working behind a desk so much of the time,” “I haven’t been to China for more than eight years,” “There are rumors of an assassination plot against Premier Zuo; since we’re suspected of being behind it, I want to clear it up,” “I’m curious about this Chinese woman Pope,” “I miss having adventures.” But he chose a safe, political lie instead. “I think we need to find out why the Catholic Church is attempting to gain influence in the PRC, Director-General.”

Anatoly Illich Sava said nothing for a short while. “What is it to us if the Catholic Church enters China?” he asked at last.

Dmitri tried to conceal his irritation. “It ought to concern us, for if the Catholic Church is moving into China, it will also be advancing in other places. That is the way it has always been. If there are missionaries in China, then soon they will come to Russia, and they will visit our friends around the world. We must be ready and prepared, Director-General. Our friends are depending on us to keep the peace. We’ve had our fill of religious wars in the last decade, wouldn’t you say?” If only Anatoly Sava was not well over sixty, if only he was not a survivor of the Siege of Stalingrad, Dmitri might have been less accommodating. But Anatoly Sava had been a real hero as a young man, and even now Dmitri Karodin was not willing to destroy his reputation. “I would rather deal with this myself. I know what I seek, and in this instance, we do not need a covert operator in China; it could endanger our posture there.” He did his best to school his features to an expression of encouragement.

“I believe you are anticipating something that might not happen,” said Sava after a brief pause.

“That’s possible. I want to learn what is actual.” He stared at his memo as if willing it to catch fire. “If I am to do my work properly, I will have to leave soon. I have already made a call to the Chinese embassy here in Moscow, and I have a call booked to the PRC this evening.” All these plans in motion, he told himself, would convince Sava that he had to react quickly. “Alexandr Nevsky isn’t available to lure the Catholics onto the frozen lake this time, Director-General. We must handle them another way.”

“You are a little ahead of yourself with all these plans, Dmitri,” said Anatoly Sava while he pulled at his lower lip. “You ought to have waited for full authorization.”

Dmitri Karodin wanted to pound the table. “I am very much afraid if we do not act quickly, the Church will have fixed itself in the flesh of Asia for the next century at least.”

“Oh, not the way we’re doing centuries now,” said Sava, a rumbling chuckle marking his feeble joke. “Nothing lasts for centuries any more. Which is why I do not share your concern about the Catholic Church.” He pushed back from his desk. “If they can do something about Islamic Fundamentalism, so much the better.” Then he sighed. “Nevertheless, I suppose you do have some legitimate reason for concern.”

“Yes,” said Dmitri impatiently. “Please let me have this authorization. I will do my work as quickly as professionalism allows. I will report to you every evening, if you like.” He made himself keep his hands at his sides instead of folding them.

Sava started to get up from his shapeless chair, then sagged back into it. “I do not trust you, Karodin. In these new times of opposition parties and soft borders, I see steel in your spine and hot coals in your eyes. You have not forgot the history of this country, which is a continuous series of invasions. You know that we are accepting risks far greater than those we imposed on our…European cousins, twenty years ago.” He put his meaty, liver-spotted hands together, sagely peering over the top of them. “You are afraid for Russia. And you will do anything to protect her. And for that reason, though I admire you, I do not trust you.”

It was an effort not to grind his teeth. “I’m sorry to hear that, Director-General.”

“You’re outraged to hear it,” Sava corrected him. “And I do not blame you for it; in your position, I would feel the same.” He tapped his big fingertips together. “But I know history, too, and I do not want the Motherland invaded again, either by armies or by zealots.” He sat very still for the better part of a minute. Then he grunted and shifted himself in the chair so that a glimmer of the heroic little boy shone through the hard-used old body. “Therefore I will authorize your travel to China for the period of a single week, and I will require and demand nightly reports from you. Make sure you pick up a list of codes and secure telephone numbers when you leave.”

“You will permit the trip?” Dmitri Karodin asked, revealing his astonishment at this sudden change of attitude in spite of himself.

“I haven’t lost track of the goal,” said Sava and his voice was no longer a tired rumble but cold and pitiless as the tundra in January. “If you fail to report every evening, I will have no choice but to order our agents to find you and kill you. Go to the West if you must, but I will see you dead before I will permit you to defect to the East.”

Chapter 13

Dominique, Cardinal Hetre could not bring himself to use his voice at all. The softest whisper would join with his intolerable headache to shatter his skull, he was certain of it. He knelt in the little chapel, one of the tiny Renaissance jewel-boxes which were tucked into odd angles of the Vatican. He had been there for well over an hour, unable to speak the words he wanted to address to God, dreading what the sound would do to him. The tolling of distant bells had been agonizing; his own voice would be more than he could bear. Reluctantly he crossed himself and rose, arm out to steady himself, for dizziness went through him as he stood up. The faint squeak of his shoes on the marble floor seemed a series of small, fragmenting explosions. As he reached the wide hall, he made himself walk directly, with purpose, ignoring the throb in his temples. Thank God, he thought, finding no blasphemy in such expression, that the Vatican had been closed to tourists since the announcements of the new Pope. Some of the Curia had been screaming—more sound to distress him!—about the loss of revenue from tourists, and a few of the Cardinals objected to being restricted to the Vatican City confines, but on the whole the decision was regarded as a prudent one.

Cardinal Hetre stopped suddenly, his headache so engulfing that he was amazed his skull remained intact. Under such an onslaught he expected the bones to shatter. A door closed at the far end of the hallway. Noise! Noise! It was torture to him. He stumbled and blundered into the nearest wall, finding the impact reassuring; as long as he was leaning on the wall, he would be able to remain on his feet. There were no prayers he could say, to vanquish the inexorable agony. Slowly he slid down the wall to the floor where he huddled until the worst was over.

As he got to his feet a quarter of an hour later, he whispered a few words of thanks that God had not added to his suffering by the humiliating ordeal of discovery. He walked, not quite steadily, back to his apartments, deciding for the hundredth or thousandth time to make an appointment with his physician. No matter what the fellow told him, he was certain there had to be some cause for the excoriating pain he endured. He muttered a greeting to his secretary and continued into his private quarters where he pulled off his cassock and collar with only the most perfunctory of ceremonies. He found his heavy Turkish bathrobe and wrapped it around his body, shuddering at the gentle rasp of the cloth.

“Your Eminence?” said his secretary after a discreet tap on the door.

“Not now,” said Cardinal Hetre without apology.

“Your Eminence, there was a call for you while you were gone.” He hesitated. “It wasn’t from the newsmedia, or I didn’t think it was. The man claimed to be a relative of Father McEllton. He said it was becoming urgent, whatever the issue may be.” The young priest was not comfortable intruding on Cardinal Hetre and he paused often. “He will call back. He said.”

“How does he have the number here?” demanded Cardinal Hetre.

“I asked him; he would not tell me,” said his secretary.

“A relative of Father McEllton could mean anything,” said Cardinal Hetre. “He’s probably a reporter.”

“He claimed he wasn’t anything like that,” his secretary persisted, trying to be diligent in his reporting. “He asked me to tell you that he had been to see Father McEllton several times and that he had been unable to speak with him.” He hesitated again, this time longer than before. “If you want me to tell him you are not available.…”

Cardinal Hetre glared at an empty space in the air. Now that the worst of his pain was over, he felt ill-used and petulant. “He’ll pester me again, won’t he?”

“I suppose he will,” said his secretary, as if admitting a fault.

“Of course he will.” He folded his hands in front of him, trying to keep them from trembling. “They’re like that.”

“Who, Your Eminence?” his secretary asked.

Cardinal Hetre had no answer for that, so he said, “I’ll consider speaking with this McEllton when he calls again, if it is not inconvenient for me to speak.” Gingerly he rubbed the hinge of his jaw. How was he going to attend Mass in this condition? There would be rumors, and these days the Vatican was more alive with rumors than ever. He had said he would meet Cardinal Gemme that evening. It would have to be postponed, as would supper with Cardinal Cadini, who was boasting he had had word from Cardinal Mendosa that afternoon. This last thought brought a sudden, echoing twinge to his head, sufficient to make him gasp. No, he definitely would not see Cardinal Cadini that evening. He made himself get up and walk to the door.

“Father Gorlich,” he called to his secretary. “Try to reach Cardinal Jung for me, if you will.”

“Of course, Your Eminence,” said his secretary, eager to do something useful.

“Tell him it’s urgent,” he added as he tightened the belt of his robe. “Find out if he will be available before Mass.”

“Certainly, Your Eminence.” Father Gorlich sounded relieved as he spoke. “About the others?”

“What others?” Cardinal Hetre asked in his least encouraging tone.

“The McEllton call? What do you—”

“Not now. Ask me about it later.” His manner left no room for questions, and Father Gorlich had served Cardinal Hetre long enough to know the questions were unwelcome.

“Is there anything else you require?” he asked, just in case he had overlooked something.

“When there is, I will inform you of it,” said Cardinal Hetre, and retreated to his bed for a brief, necessary nap. He needed to reclaim some of his strength before he faced Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung.

* * *

When it came, the car was small and inconspicuous, and the street, between the Beijing Zoo and the People’s University of China, busy but unimportant. Dmitri Karodin stepped toward the curb where the vehicle had drawn up, entering as soon as the door was opened.

No sooner was Karodin inside than the car pulled away into traffic. “I don’t think we’ve been followed, and I’ve had the car swept for bugs,” said Zuo Nangkao, meeting Karodin’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

“Is it one of your own?” asked Karodin, glancing back in spite of himself, knowing that these days with all the sophisticated equipment at the disposal of covert services all over the world it would be difficult if not impossible to spot a tail.

“I had my cook borrow it from one of the guards. The cook thinks I have an assignation, the guard thinks the cook has one.” Zuo gave a brittle laugh. “I had the security men check it out; I said it was because I was afraid of foreign press and—”

“In other words,” said Karodin bluntly, “we’re about as safe as we can hope to be.” It was warm in the little car but neither man moved to open the windows. Outside, spring warred with smog for the upper hand in the weather.

“That’s right,” said Zuo, continuing before Karodin could speak, “What do you want me to do now?”

Karodin heard the angry note in Zuo’s voice, and the deliberate way his Russian was accented. He chose to ignore the slight such a pronunciation implied. “Drive for a time. Stay off the main roads. Don’t keep to the same district. You know the drill.” He settled back, though the space was a little too small for him to be comfortable. “It’s a pity your face is so well-known. Otherwise we might be able to park and walk, but we can’t take the chance of you being recognized.”

“If you tell me so,” said Zuo, his resentment no longer disguised.

They had gone half a dozen blocks in silence before Karodin spoke again. “I appreciate your taking the time to speak to me like this.”

“What options did I have?” Zuo countered.

Karodin sighed. “Nangkao, let’s not make this unpleasant, all right? It’s taken me three days to reach you, Nangkao, and I am on a very tight schedule. The delay you forced on me was not convenient.” He gave Zuo a chance to respond, but the Premier of the People’s Republic of China said nothing. He shrugged inwardly and got down to it. “Have you decided what you’re going to do about this woman they want to make Pope?”

The question surprised Zuo enough that he almost swerved into a group of cyclists. “No,” he said guardedly. “I haven’t yet.”

“By which I take it you mean that you are going to do nothing as long as possible, and then refuse to co-operate?” Karodin inquired. At moments like this he wished he had not given up cigarettes. “This is your scenario, isn’t it?”

“It is one of them,” said Zuo cautiously.

“You mean it is the only one.” Karodin slapped the blue plastic seat cover. “I’d probably do the same thing in your place, if I had to make the decision.”

Zuo was sufficiently thrown off-guard to begin “Does that mean you support—”

Karodin cut him short. “And I would be wrong. As you are wrong.” He stared out into the traffic, giving Zuo some time to digest what he had just said. When he was satisfied that Zuo would not argue with him just yet, he continued. “I don’t have the time or the energy to debate the issue with you. We probably wouldn’t agree in any case. I offer you, instead, a single proposition: I have two rolls of microfilm in my pocket, Nangkao. They’re the records of my documentation of your…little indiscretion in ‘82. I will give these to you this afternoon so you can review them and be satisfied that I have everything. You may keep or destroy the microfilm, along with the original documents, on the day Magistrate Zhuang arrives in Rome.”

Zuo pulled the car to the curb and took it out of gear. He swung around in the little seat and stared directly at Karodin. “What are you saying to me?”

“You heard my offer, a very reasonable proposition,” Karodin responded. “I will release everything I have on you. All of it. And I will release you, Nangkao, if you will release Zhuang Renxin.” He smiled at Zuo, not pleasantly. “You’ve got Hong Kong now; is it so difficult to give up one Magistrate?”

“But.…” Zuo scowled, avoiding Karodin, suspicion making him surly. “Why are you doing this? What do you seek to gain? I had expected something from the West, from the Americans, perhaps, or the South Americans. But you?”

Karodin lifted a shoulder. “Is it your business, Nangkao? I doubt it.” He looked away from Zuo. “Tell Magistrate Zhuang you have changed your mind. Let the Cardinal from Texas meet with her again. Stop hindering her departure. And when she reaches Rome, you will be freer than she.”

Zuo shook his head. “And when that happens, you will have an excellent reason why you cannot give me the documents, or you will discover another cache of them. No, no, Dmitri Yvgeneivich,” he said cynically. “We will be precisely where we were before, only I will have one less card in my hand.”

It took Karodin a couple of seconds to answer. “Nangkao, you have my word—”

“Of the head of the KGB?” jeered Zuo. “So reliable.”

“You have my word. You also have my word that if in three months time Magistrate Zhuang is not in Rome, I will release all the documents I have on microfilm to every major news agency in the world, along with a complete record of the fatalities that came after your…exercise in poor judgment.” He saw horror in Zuo’s eyes. “I am absolutely sincere, Nangkao.”

“I can’t believe even you’d.…” Zuo faltered. “They have said she has been elected Pope. They want her to head up the Roman Catholic Church, Dmitri. There is no more exploitative body anywhere on earth. Don’t you understand that?”

“Yes, I do,” said Karodin with steel behind his cordial little smile. He looked at the newly planted trees at the corner of the street and wondered what they would grow into. “But you seem to be unable to recognize opportunity when it presents itself.”

“Opportunity?” Zuo echoed.

“Yes, Nangkao. It is a great, great opportunity and it would be a shame to waste it.” Karodin still did not look at Zuo. “You have my offer. I hope you will give it serious consideration.”

“If you send that material to the press, you won’t be blameless, Dmitri.” His face tightened. “It could destroy your career if all the details were known.”

“That is a chance I am prepared to take. If I go down, you will have no one to protect you in Moscow. As it is, I have a certain stake in watching over you. But all that will be lost if you insist on keeping Magistrate Zhuang in Hongya.” At last he turned directly to Zuo. “I have written a secure number on the back of this book. I will be there until midnight tonight. Let me know what you decide to do, Nangkao.”

“It may take longer than—” Zuo began, wanting to bargain for time while he tried to discover the reason for this quixotic gesture of Karodin’s.

“It had better not,” said Karodin, still polite. “If I have no response from you, I will have to inform my superior that I have not accomplished what I set out to do. There will be ramifications.”

The last word hung ominously between them. After a silence that became frightening as it went on Zuo coughed once. “By midnight. Where is this book?”

Karodin pulled the French paperback from his inside jacket pocket. “Here.” He offered it to Zuo. Then he reached into another pocket, as if in response to an afterthought. “Don’t forget the microfilm,” he said as he handed over the two rolls. “I’ll expect your call.”

“You are taking a great chance for no sensible reason, Dmitri,” said Zuo as he thrust the two rolls of microfilm into the map pocket on the door.

Karodin only remarked, “You can let me out at the next corner, Nangkao. I’ll find my way from here.”

* * *

Willie and Dame Leonie broke apart as Mendosa strolled into the lanai behind her office. Willie’s shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and his tie had been shoved into his pocket.

“You know,” said Mendosa in his thickest drawl, “You’re-all gonna have to learn to be a mite more careful if you’re gonna carry on like teen-agers. Anybody could’ve come in.”

Dame Leonie made an attempt to straighten her hair. “I didn’t know you were in the garden.” It was late in the afternoon and the heat of the day was slowly fading. “It’s not quite time for tea.”

“Anybody might have been out there,” Mendosa said again, pointedly. “You got a big household here, and not all of them would keep their mouths shut if they thought they could pick up a few bucks for passing on a little scandal. There’s press all over the place, because of Magistrate Zhuang, and they’re hungry for tidbits, and tarnation, if you aren’t offering ‘em a steak dinner with all the trimmin’s. The Ambassadress and the reporter. It would make real tasty headlines. Almost as good as the royals.” He gave his warning without condemnation, adding without the exaggerated drawl, “Your husband wouldn’t like it, Dame Leonie.”

For once she was goaded into a sharp answer. “My husband spends all his time with young men just down from university, ones he can take under his wing, so they can part friends when the youngster isn’t quite so young anymore. He prefers having me on the other side of the world.”

Willie put his hand on her shoulder. “Leonie,” he said gently.

“Well, he does,” she said, then glanced at Mendosa once more. “I know how that must sound to you, Cardinal, adultery and homosexuality and.…” She finished with a gesture.

“No, you don’t,” said Mendosa, sitting on the arm of a long, low sofa. “Know how it sounds to me.”

Dame Leonie started away from Willie, then came back to his side. “I don’t expect you to understand. But it doesn’t matter.” She kissed Willie once, softly. “I’ve tried to be Caesar’s wife, and I’ve failed.”

“I do understand,” said Mendosa. “I’ve spent time enough listening to Confession to know a fair amount about people. I’ve heard rumors about your husband for years—he isn’t as discreet as he likes to think. And I know about Willie. I’m not judging you or criticizing you, Dame Leonie. It’s not my place to do that.” He touched his lapel pin. “This doesn’t make me one whit better than anyone else on this planet. Or one whit worse.”

“I suppose I ought to ask your pardon, for diplomatic reasons,” Dame Leonie persisted. “But I’m not going to do it.”

“Fine by me,” said Mendosa. “Just use a little more sense, for your own sakes, if you want to spend time together. How’s that for a euphemism?” He nodded to the reporter. “You don’t have to stand there like a dead sentry, Willie. Say something.”

Willie did not relax. “I’m wondering what you’re up to, Charles.” This use of his name was very deliberate.

“I’m not up to anything, more’s the pity,” said Mendosa. “I keep hoping someone in Beijing will get off the pot.” He locked his hands together. “Patience is a virtue, but it is also a pain in the ass.”

“You don’t really expect Beijing to give you an answer, do you?” asked Willie, some of his skepticism coming from chagrin rather than doubt. “It’s impossible.”

“I don’t think so.” He chuckled. “That’s part of my job. The thing is, God’s made it pretty damned obvious He wants Zhuang Renxin, and I don’t know what Premier Zuo can do about it.”

“Premier Zuo is an atheist,” Willie reminded Mendosa.

“That won’t bother God one little bit,” said Mendosa. “If He can get eighty-nine Cardinals to vote for the same Chinese woman twice—twice!—He can find a way to get the Premier of the PRC to let her out. Hell, after the Cardinals, the Premier should be a piece of cake.” He clapped his hands. “I just wish He’d hurry it up a little.”

Dame Leonie could not quite laugh. “What if Beijing refuses?”

Mendosa shook his head. “It won’t happen. Oh, they’ll think about it, I’m sure of that, but eventually, they’ll give in.” He looked toward the garden. “Your security lights ought to come on soon.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Dame Leonine with a swift glance at Willie. “What time is it?”

“Sixish,” he said.

“Sounds about right,” Mendosa agreed.

“And why are the lights significant, if they are?” Willie asked in what he thought of as his drawing-room-comedy voice.

“Just an observation,” said Mendosa, “and a way to get off the subject. How to get Magistrate Zhuang to Rome: it’s been on my mind every hour since we left there and even I am beginning to find it boring.” He looked away toward an arrangement of orchids. “Very pretty. Do you grow them here?”

“In the greenhouse,” said Dame Leonie, her face reddening.

“They’re lovely.” Mendosa did not appear to be aware of her momentary awkwardness. “They must take a great deal of care.”

“Yes,” she said, recovering quickly. “Yes, they do.”

The lights came on in the garden. Willie bowed with a flourish. “Right on time, Your Eminence.”

Mendosa gave a short, hard sigh. “Willie, truly, I did not mean to offend you.”

“And you’ll read me a lesson later,” said Willie before he could stop himself. “Sorry. That was out of bounds. If I didn’t hate this waiting and uncertainty and.…”

“And the need for deception,” said Dame Leonie when Willie did not continue. She took a step toward the inner door. “I’m sure tea is almost ready. Why don’t we adjourn to the drawing room?”

Willie accepted promptly and gratefully. “Just promise me that we don’t have crumpets. If there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s crumpets anywhere but England. Cuisine chauvinism, I suppose, but I don’t know how anyone can stand crumpets if they aren’t in Bury St. Edmunds.”

They were in the hall now, almost at the door to the drawing room when the telephone secretary came up to Dame Leonie. “Excuse me, Dame Leonie, but we have a call for Cardinal Mendosa. It is authentic and urgent.” His face was disapproving though he spoke in a carefully neutral tone. “We have voice-print verification.”

“From Rome?” asked Mendosa, wondering which of his fellow-Cardinals was checking up on him.

“No; from Beijing.” The telephone secretary looked from Dame Leonie to Mendosa for the first time, as if Mendosa had appeared there by magic.

Mendosa’s demeanor changed at once. “Why didn’t you say so?” he demanded, then swung around toward Willie. “I told you.”

“You haven’t heard what the caller has to say yet,” Willie cautioned him. “You don’t know that it has any bearing on Magistrate Zhuang.”

“Why else would someone call me from Beijing?” Mendosa asked, feeling suddenly light-headed. “Excuse me, Dame Leonie. I won’t be long.” He addressed the telephone secretary. “Will I?”

“I’m afraid I cannot say,” he replied and turned away without further comment. “The call will be transferred to the booth off the entry hall,” he added.

“I’ll get there,” said Mendosa, striding off down the hall. He knew the call would open the way for him, as he had known Magistrate Zhuang the first time he set eyes on her. Whoever was calling him would be the key to bringing Zhuang Renxin to Rome. He had to resist the urge to run the last few yards to the secure telephone booth built into an alcove on the side of the entry hall.

“Your call from Beijing, Your Eminence,” said one of the switchboard operators as Mendosa picked up the line.

“Charles Mendosa here,” he said, expecting to hear a Chinese voice and a translator as well.

The answering party spoke excellent English with a distinct Russian accent. “Good evening, Your Eminence.”

Startled, Mendosa did not reply immediately. “Who is this?” he asked, baffled and apprehensive at once.

The man on the other end of the line laughed. “This is Dmitri Karodin, Your Eminence. I must suppose you know who I am?”

More confused than ever, Mendosa said, “Yes, I know. And don’t call me Your Eminence. Mendosa will do just fine.”

“As you wish.” Karodin paused, then ventured. “I thought you might be expecting to hear from me.”

“I was expecting to hear from someone in Beijing,” said Mendosa carefully.

“Well, and so you have; that is where I am.” He paused once more for effect, continuing smoothly, “My errand here is almost finished, Your—Mendosa. There are very few things left to do. Perhaps you would like to hear about them?”

“I’m a little rusty, but I know the rules of Confession,” said Mendosa.

“Yes, of course,” said Karodin. “And naturally your lips are sealed, aren’t they?” He did not give Mendosa enough time to answer. “I have come to China to…to handle a minor negotiation with an old associate, someone who would prefer our dealings remain strictly private. The nature of the negotiations need not concern you, except that as part of those negotiations, I have stipulated that Magistrate Zhuang be provided the proper exit papers to permit her to leave the People’s Republic of China to take up permanent residence in Rome.”

In spite of his inner certainty that Magistrate Zhuang would obtain the needed visas, Mendosa was amazed, for he had never anticipated that the KGB would be involved. He bristled with questions, all of which he kept to himself. “A very gracious gesture,” he said. “Yet I am curious about your motives. Forgive me for doubting your altruism, but it is a fault of my trade, I fear.”

Karodin gave a single bark of laughter. “What I’ve heard about you must be right. Such restraint, Your Eminence. My motives, as you call them, are my own. They do not concern you, directly or indirectly. I give you my personal assurance of that.”

“I hope…I hope it proves so,” said Mendosa warily.

“I have been informed,” Karodin went on as if he was unaware of Mendosa’s reservations, “that you will be allowed to return to Hongya in three days, and that Magistrate Zhuang’s papers will be ready within the month. I have every reason to believe that there will be no changes in this plan. I trust I can leave this in your capable hands?”

Mendosa’s palms were sweating now. “Who told you this? Who arranged it?”

“Ah,” Karodin warned, “I am not at liberty to discuss that; I will never be at liberty to discuss it. Suffice it to say that it is being tended to properly.”

“All right,” said Mendosa, waiting for more.

“So discreet, Mendosa. And admirable in a man of your position.” There was a change in his tone to something at once lighter and more grim. “Let me make two requests of you: first, that you do not mention my participation in any of these dealings at any time.”

“Since this is your Confession, I cannot speak,” said Mendosa. “No matter what may happen.”

Karodin hesitated. “There is no reason for you to anticipate regretting your silence.”

“Very well. And second?” It was a dangerous assurance to give, Mendosa knew it, but he was confident that he would have no cause to betray the confidence. Nothing in what Karodin said distorted the vision of Zhuang Renxin at her Papal coronation; it remained before his eyes like a thin, bright film coloring everything around him.

“Second is that I wish to have regular reports, secret reports, on her work and her progress. From you.”

Mendosa was quiet as he considered his answer. “Why from me? I would have thought you had others to do that task for you.”

“Perhaps I want us both to be reminded of this conversation, Your Eminence. Like it or not, we have this to link us, don’t we?” He let the question hang.

Mendosa did not challenge him. “Assuming I go along with you, how often do you want these reports, and what information do you seek?” He sensed that if he pressed the Russian for the reason, Karodin would end their conversation at once.

“I wish to know what she is doing.” There was an implacable note in his voice now.

Mendosa made himself chuckle. “The press and newsmedia will do that.”

“Nevertheless, I want reports,” said Karodin. “From you.”

“But that is…it could be compromising.” Mendosa said it easily enough but his tension became a hot place in his gut.

“It could, but it will not be,” said Karodin.

Mendosa could not keep from asking, “Why?”

“Caprice?” Karodin suggested. “I have told you my reasons are my own, Your Eminence.” He became more business-like. “I will send a note to your office in Rome. It will contain instructions as to how your reports are to be delivered. Shall we say monthly?”

“Is this truly necessary?” Mendosa asked.

“Yes, it is,” said Karodin. “I have done you a service and I require a service in kind. Rather the devil you know, Mendosa.” He made a sound that was not the laugh he intended. “You will be contacted officially in the morning. I would recommend you be prepared to travel in three days. And I suppose that Englishman, Foot, had better go with you.”

“I should inform the Vatican of this,” said Mendosa, giving Karodin the opportunity to change his mind.

“Inform away, for all the good it will do,” said Karodin with a touch of amusement in his voice. “It has been an unexpected pleasure, Your Eminence, but I regret our discussion is over. Bon voyage.” With that he cut the connection.

Mendosa held the receiver for the better part of a minuteF as if he expected Karodin to come back on the line, or someone else to inform him that it had all been a joke. But neither of those things happened, and finally Mendosa hung up.

* * *

“For in the Book of Revelations, are we not warned against the Whore of Babylon? Is it not written that the Antichrist will reign?” Reverend Williamson stared soulfully into the camera lens while behind him rose the spires of his new Salvation Center. “I say it is 1998 and the Last Days are upon us. I say that Scripture spells it out plainly. In two years, two short years, the millennium will be upon us and Christ will come again to reign on earth, to judge the living and the dead. O my dear Brothers and Sisters in Christ! Heed the warning! In this time of chaos among nations, of governments that change with every season, when the earth itself is abused and damaged by thoughtless, godless men, the promise of Scripture is clear. Those who know the signs will reject all false prophets and the lure of the Antichrist, they will abhor the profane, blasphemous conduct of the Roman Catholic Church, which has wandered so far from God’s purpose that it proposes to put a non-Christian woman on the Throne of Saint Peter!” His face darkened with indignation.

In the control room, the sound engineer cued in Reverend Williamson’s signature hymn, Rising up, Jehovah.

“Many times I have been inspired to tell you of the dangers of the idolatrous Catholic Church. Many times God has revealed to me the damnation hidden in the jewels and rituals of the Catholic Church. And now we see the Church for the Harlot she is, for the deceiver she is! God has shown us, my Brothers and Sisters.” His gestures were controlled but abrupt, punctuating his accusations. “God has torn the mask of piety from the face of the Catholic Church and exposed the corruption and rottenness that infests it. A Communist woman is Pope! How ludicrous that is! How ridiculous! How obscene!”

The camera pulled back to accommodate Reverend Williamson’s now more expansive gestures.

“Thank the Lord that we have had this warning! Fall on your knees and praise Him for His mercy, that He has shown you the fires of the Pit before you fall into them. The Catholic Church is the first and greatest of the profaners to fall, and there will be others crumbling as the Lord’s Year comes.

“And my Brothers and Sisters, it is coming, that glorious year Two Thousand! When Jesus will come back to us, as He promised He would do, and He will gather His lambs unto His breast, and the goats He will turn away into Hell.”

“Cue credits,” said the director. “That’s a wrap.”

* * *

Martin Bell was nervous as he read over the instructions he had received from Dmitri Karodin that morning. Arrange an introduction to Charles, Cardinal Mendosa as soon as he returns from China, the decoded message said. Cultivate his friendship. That last was ominous, for in the last twenty-four hours it had been announced by Premier Zuo of the People’s Republic of China that in the interest of world peace and the brotherhood of nations, Magistrate Zhuang Renxin would be given an exit visa to permit her to assume her position as head of the Roman Catholic Church. The Cardinal—the only Catholic—permitted to visit and accompany her on this historic occasion was Charles, Cardinal Mendosa of Houston, Texas.

He put the message in a little safe built under the floor of his office. For once in his long and successful career, he did not have any confidence in his ability to perform as required. Everyone in the Western world would be seeking to meet Cardinal Mendosa. The savvy, outspoken Texan was known to have a sixth sense for phonies, and that alone spooked Bell. Once or twice in his life he had come up against such people, and he had always fared badly.

His new secretary knocked on his door. “Cardinal Cadini is here for your three o’clock appointment, Professor,” she said, her shiny hair swung to catch his attention.

Ordinarily Bell would have allowed himself the pleasure of a little flirtation: Norma was the kind of woman who turned him on—busty, leggy and glossy. But today he gave her a distracted nod. “I’ll be right out. Give him a cup of coffee or something.”

“All right,” she said, clearly disappointed at her reception.

Bell fiddled with the stack of papers on his desk, delaying the moment when he would have to put into effect the only plan he had been able to think of since he received word from Karodin, for he knew that it was not a very clever notion. He kept hoping that something better would occur to him, though nothing did. He could not postpone taking action indefinitely. He got up, raked his fingers through his hair, adjusted his tie and fixed his mouth in a polite smile. If only he did not like Cardinal Cadini so much, it would be easier to use him.

“Good afternoon, Martin,” said Cardinal Cadini, holding out his hand. He was unusually dapper today, with a burgundy tie and a summer-weight suit in a flattering shade of dove-grey.

“Out of uniform again, I see,” said Bell, reassured by Cardinal Cadini’s firm grip. “Glad to see you looking so fit.”

“Ah, my physician is a tyrant,” Cardinal Cadini complained genially. “He insists that I walk each morning, and I am terrified to disobey, for then he sets his nurses after me.”

“A terrible fate,” said Bell, then turned to Norma, trying to make up for his earlier lack of interest. “Sorry you have such a churlish lout for a boss, Norma. I guess it’s the weather.”

“It is pretty muggy,” she said, letting him off the hook.

“It’s all the tourists,” said Cardinal Cadini. “They raise the temperature of the place. I’m quite certain of it.” He smiled at Norma then looked quizzically at Bell. “Are you sure you can spare the time? If you have other—”

“No; no, I want to pick your brains, actually,” said Bell, making himself tend to his appointed task. “So long as the Church is going to have such a monumental upheaval, I figure I might as well get a book and a promotion out of it.”

“The academic predator,” said Cardinal Cadini, opening his hands to show he was helpless against one. “I suppose I ought to have anticipated this.”

“From more quarters than mine alone,” said Bell, permitting Cardinal Cadini to precede him out the door. “I thought we might go along to the Villa Borghese, to enjoy the air.”

“And the tourists?” asked Cardinal Cadini. “Why not? It will give me a little time away from the Vatican.” He shook his head in mock self-recrimination. “How can I speak of the Vatican that way? You cannot imagine how the place has been since Premier Zuo made his announcement. I though the entire Curia had run mad, the way they reacted. And some of the Cardinals!”

“Very bad?” asked Bell.

“I do not expect teen-aged schoolboys to behave so badly.” He clapped one hand to his breast. “And I am as bad as the lot of them, admitting this to you. But I suppose you would know something of it in any case.”

“It will probably be all over the news tonight,” Bell said by way of consolation.

They descended a single flight of stairs and well out tall doors to a pillared walkway.

“I am particularly fond of this place in the spring, when the wisteria are blooming,” said Cardinal Cadini. “Very pretty, the wisteria, but they tell me they aren’t in fashion right now.”

“I like them, too,” said Bell, adding, “Shall we take a cab? My treat.”

“In that case, by all means,” said Cardinal Cadini, toddling after Bell as he hurried toward the street.

Bell snagged a cab in short order, and opened the door for Cardinal Cadini. “Prego,” he said as he climbed in beside his guest and gave their destination to the driver.

Traffic was aggressively and typically Roman, and the cabbie hurtled along with the best of them. In the thirteen minutes it took to reach the Villa Borghese, the cab narrowly avoided nine collisions, which Bell ignored and Cardinal Cadini found invigorating. They got out near the Museo Borghese and ambled in the general direction of the Giardino del Lago.

“All right, Martin, ask me your questions; there will be many, many things written about the Church now and it is good to know that someone might wish to get it right.” Cardinal Cadini beamed at Bell. “It’s a foregone conclusion that Willie Foot is going to come out of this a rich man, but you might as well garner some of the loot, as well.”

“You sound cynical,” said Bell in surprise.

“I? Never,” said Cardinal Cadini. “I am a trifle fatigued, that’s all. It is a privilege of old men to grumble from time to time.” He watched as a group of schoolchildren ran down the path pursued by a young, harried teacher. “Since we can’t do that, we grumble.”

“Of course,” said Bell, trying to think of a way to turn the conversation the way he needed it to go.

Cardinal Cadini saved him the trouble. “Actually, the one you should be speaking to is Cardinal Mendosa. He’s the one who’s had direct dealings with…I suppose we’ll have to call her Her Holiness. Madre Maria! there are some tongues that are going to trip over that phrase!” He slapped his hands together.

“Cardinal Mendosa is in China, isn’t he?” asked Bell.

“He leaves to go there in the morning. He will fly from Hong Kong to Chengdu—”

“And Willie Foot will be with him?” Bell interrupted sharply.

“Willie Foot speaks Chinese fluently. Cardinal Mendosa does not,” said Cardinal Cadini. “They travel together.”

“How fortunate for Willie Foot,” said Bell, startled to hear how jealous he sounded.

“It’s a sin, Martin,” said Cardinal Cadini in gentle reprimand. “Envy is. Try to avoid it, if you can.” He grinned. “Not that I don’t feel a touch of it from time to time. I can’t help wishing I, too, were going to be flying to Chengdu, and then driven to Hongya. But God selects His servants as He chooses, and even Cardinals must bow to His judgment.”

Martin stared at Cardinal Cadini. “You find this…funny, don’t you?” He could see the amusement increase in Cardinal Cadini’s bright little eyes.

Cardinal Cadini nodded several times as he walked, and finally answered his companion as if apologizing. “Well, you see, it’s just that I’ve never had so much enjoyment from a Papal election before.”

Chapter 14

The wind off the fields smelled green and the sky was paled by thin, high clouds when the four cars pulled up in front of Magistrate Zhuang’s house. The government escort attracted the attention of the people in the fields less than the rangy American and the tall, lean Brit.

“Don’t look now, Charles,” said Willie, “But we’re being goggled at.” He lifted one hand in what could have been a half-hearted wave: no one in the fields waved back. “I wonder how much they know about what’s going on?”

“My guess is they’re probably curious to know why their Magistrate has been given an exit visa. Maybe they’re hoping to find out who they’re going to get in her place. And don’t doubt they know she’s leaving and someone else will be Magistrate here.” He turned to their driver and thanked him in his rudimentary Chinese. As he looked up at the house, he felt intense awe, as if the force of Zhuang Renxin had increased during the time they had been gone. “Do you think she’s home?”

“If she’s not now, she will be in a few minutes,” said Willie, then answered an inquiry from the head of their escort. He explained their brief conversation to Mendosa. “One of the escort will remain with us at all times, and tape recordings are to be made of all talk between us, and with Magistrate Zhuang. They want a full record of what Magistrate Zhuang is told.”

“That smacks of blackmail,” said Mendosa lightly. “I suppose Premier Zuo has to cover his ass, like all politicians.”

“He has to have something concrete, in case his rivals question his wisdom in permitting Magistrate Zhuang to leave, and for so peculiar a reason. It could be used to raise doubts about his abilities to lead.” Willie added a few words to the Colonel with them, adding to Mendosa. “He doesn’t like it when we talk too much English.”

“Why? Has he said?” Mendosa asked, masking his irritation at this lack of respect with a business-like geniality.

“You’re doing better,” said Willie, approving Mendosa’s demeanor. “Chinese always understand business, no matter what wrapping they put in it. China, far more than France, is a nation of shopkeepers. That is France, isn’t it?”

“Stop blathering, Willie,” Mendosa recommended. “They’ll think you’re exceeding your authority.” He folded his arms out of nervousness. “It will distress them to learn—”

“Actually, I suspect that two of our escort are fluent in English, the way our pilot was on the flight to Chengdu,” said Willie. “I don’t know how they handle Italian, if at all, but I caught one of them smiling at breakfast when you compared your pressed pork to a squashed horny-toad. And one of the others nodded at your observation that the planting is coming along quickly.”

“How did you translate horny-toad?” Mendosa asked, feeling now so on edge that his skin seemed to have shrunk two sizes.

“As literally as possible.” He answered an inquiry from one of their escort, then nudged Mendosa’s arm. “Ready?”

“Long since,” he answered, utterly sincere. He had been preparing for this since he had his first vision, since that long-ago Lenten season when he had seen the face of a Chinese person in full Papal regalia. At the time he had thought it was an odd nightmare, but over the decades, he had come to recognize it for what it was, to accept his vision, as he had learned who the Catholic President was who died in Dallas, as he had seen it in dreams three years before it happened. For the last week, his visions had been so constant that he was badly in need of sleep. He smoothed the front of his suit. “After you, my boy.”

Willie chucked and offered a single modification. “After the good Colonel”—he indicated the leader of their escort—“and his two officers, Charles.”

They were something of a parade going up the steep steps to the house. Once again the darkness of the porch surprised Mendosa, and he waited while the Colonel rang the small bell that hung near the door with its clapper chain.

The Colonel brought his two men to attention.

Magistrate Zhuang opened the door almost at once, bowing to her guests as the door swung back. She spoke the proper phrases of welcome to her guests, then added, “I was pleased to learn that you were returning, Mendosa.”

He wanted to kneel and kiss her ring—the ring she did not yet wear—but he knew it would serve only to embarrass the others. So he bowed as the valet had trained him to do. “Thank you,” said Mendosa in Chinese. It was inexpert but it earned him a glimmer of approval as Magistrate Zhuang stood aside to permit the five men to enter.

Once he was over the threshold, the Colonel spoke urgently and rapidly to the Magistrate, saying, as Willie informed Mendosa, that if the Worthy Magistrate should decide that she did not wish to leave China to take over so corrupt an institution as the Catholic Church, she had only to inform him and the process of securing her visa would stop at once and she could remain where she was, doing her work as Magistrate.

“You are very kind, Colonel,” said Magistrate Zhuang. “But I have made up my mind, and I don’t think anything Mendosa tells me now will alter my decision. I have accepted my election, no matter how unexplainable it is.” She indicated the same room where she had sat with Mendosa and Willie and Nigel No when they had come the first time. “If you will sit down, I have much to learn about my responsibilities and duties.”

“Very to-the-point,” added Willie when he had translated her remarks. “She is very close to being rude to the Colonel.”

“I don’t want her to do that,” said Mendosa, who feared more delays. “She doesn’t have to do that on our account.”

“She isn’t too critical, Charles,” said Willie. “As a Magistrate, she has certain lee-way in how she addresses officials.” He led the way into the study. “Since we have been asked to sit here,” he told their escort, “I am eager to comply with the Magistrate’s wishes.”

“Of course,” said the Colonel, signaling the other two men to enter. He took the chair nearest the Magistrate’s; his expression was one of immense satisfaction. “The corrupter of the innocent will have to find a less worthy place,” he remarked.

“I gather we’re not being flattered,” said Mendosa as he sank into one of the other chairs.

Willie nodded. “You’re right.”

“Tell the Colonel for me that in my Church we praise modesty and humility. I take this lesser seat gladly.” Mendosa did not look at the Colonel as he waited for Magistrate Zhuang to join them.

After Willie passed on Mendosa’s remarks—somewhat edited so that they would not give too much offence—he said, “Do you think we should offer to help the Magistrate? It doesn’t seem quite fitting for her to be playing at parlor maid. She’s gone to fetch tea for all of us.”

“You’re the expert on China,” said Mendosa. “If you think it’s wise, I’ll do it. If you think it would make an awkward situation worse, then we will remain where we are.” He favored the Colonel with a small, tight smile. “I wish I could get that smarmy look off his face. He’s as bad as a politician saying he wants to be Vice-President. He’s making this as hard as he can, isn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Willie, seeing again the slight flicker of understanding in one of the escort’s eyes. “It would be prudent to watch what you say, Charles.”

“Why?” Mendosa asked. “They’re assuming the worst about me already, so why not give them some reason for their opinion?”

Willie turned his eyes toward the ceiling, knowing this was going to be a very long stay.

Magistrate Zhuang came into the study with a tray in her hands. “I have brought tea,” she announced, and was startled when Mendosa rose. “What is the meaning of this?”

“As long as you are standing, Worthy Magistrate, I will stand, if you please.” Mendosa had no idea how Willie might explain this, so he added, “It is a sign of respect, Worthy Magistrate.”

“It is a very strange custom, if that is the case,” said Magistrate Zhuang, doing her best not to sound condemning.

“There are many strange customs you may have to learn to accommodate,” said Mendosa. “Having others stand in your presence is only one of them. I thought it might be easier for you if you had an opportunity to get used to a few of them before we leave for Rome.”

Willie handled all his translation with deliberation and care, knowing the Colonel could intervene at any moment. “He is telling you the truth, Worthy Magistrate. Whatever you may think of the Cardinal, he is not deceiving you.”

“I am aware of that,” she said. “But I am perplexed by much of what he says and does.”

“Then his advice is wise,” said Willie at once. “And he is right—there are many things you will have to learn before you go to Rome. This is a painless way to begin, isn’t it?”

“I hope you’re being as eloquent as you sound, Willie,” warned Mendosa. “I don’t want her getting the wrong impression at this stage of the game.”

She heard them out and gave the issue her consideration. “I will permit it so long as it is not done foolishly.”

“Whatever that means,” said Mendosa when Willie had relayed her answer.

“I suspect it means that she doesn’t want you or her to be criticized by the Colonel for inappropriate behavior.” Willie hesitated. “I could rise, too, if that would help.”

“Ask the Worthy Magistrate,” Mendosa recommended.

“Later,” said Willie. “When we’re all a little more comfortable.”

“Oh, let’s not wait that long,” said Mendosa dryly, sitting again now that Magistrate Zhuang had taken her place. “I’ve got a hunch that’s never going to happen.”

* * *

“I’m afraid International Vision, Ltd. is not prepared to pay for any more trips to Rome, Mister McEllton,” said Mister Greene as they sat on their usual meeting bench. The park was busy this warm afternoon and a number of families could be seen out on the long slope of lawn leading down to the ornamental pond. “We had hopes that you would be able to learn for us from your uncle, but apparently that isn’t possible. You have realized a very handsome profit from your efforts and I hope that the amount is sufficient to purchase your silence as part of your services?”

“That’s always part of the bargain,” said Clancy McEllton, annoyed that the man could suggest he would behave so unprofessionally after his many years as an operative.

“It is reassuring to hear it from you,” said Greene, staring at the small boy who was trying to sneak up on a large white duck.

“He’s never going to catch it,” said Clancy, following Greene’s line of vision. “The ducks here have too much experience to get caught.”

“It’s only a duck, Mister McEllton,” said Greene reprovingly.

“Never underestimate ducks, Mister Greene,” said Clancy. “There are parts of the world where ducks are preferred to dogs as guards.” He recalled, as he said it, that it was geese, not ducks. Well, it was close enough for him to make his point. He decided to offer one last morsel. “I don’t know what this means, if it means anything, but the last time I went to see Uncle Neddy, I learned that Cardinal Hetre, of Canada, has been visiting him, too. Apparently he hasn’t said anything to Cardinal Hetre, either.”

“Why was he there?” asked Greene, not quite concealing his interest.

“I don’t know. But he has come five times in the last month, and that seems significant to me.” He placed his loosely folded hands in his lap. “None of the other Cardinals have been to see Uncle Neddy, or none that I know of.”

“Cardinal Hetre,” said Greene meditatively. “That’s certainly odd.”

“I think so,” said Clancy, and waited for Greene to speak again.

After the greater part of a minute, Greene asked, “Visiting Father McEllton? What would be his reason?”

“I don’t know. But I think it has to be important, don’t you?” He did his best to appear apologetic. “I can’t shake the feeling that Cardinal Hetre has decided to talk to Uncle Neddy for some of the same reasons I’ve been trying to. It has something to do with this new Pope. Uncle Neddy knows something, and Cardinal Hetre wants to know what it is as much as we do.”

“An interesting supposition, if true,” said Greene, his expression belying his attempt at the laconic.

Clancy nearly lost his temper. “You know, after our last meeting, I did a little checking up. Call it a reflex, or a habit; I wanted to know what this International Vision, Ltd. of yours is all about.”

“We’re a private philanthropic foundation,” said Greene.

“You’ve got that part down pat, haven’t you?” Clancy challenged; he continued relentlessly, beginning to enjoy himself. “I found out that International Vision, Ltd. is hidden in a maze of holding companies and international corporations. But what it comes down to, if you dig deep enough and long enough, is an arm of Reverend Williamson’s organization. You are funded by Revelation, Inc., a charitable research corporation that is styled the R and D branch of the Salvation Syndicate, Reverend Williamson’s church corporation. I’ve also taken the time to listen to some of Reverend Williamson’s remarks about the Catholic Church and the new Pope. I’d guess that part of your purpose is to find some evidence of manipulation or tampering with this Papal election, in order to discredit it, or cause so much scandal that the new Pope will not be able to function because of public pressure; that way the whole authority of the Church can be undermined. How close have I come, Mister Greene?”

“You’ve done a very good job,” said Greene, his face hard with anger. “And it was extremely foolish of you.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” said Clancy. “I really do doubt that, Mister Greene.” He leaned back on the bench, enjoying himself hugely. “The riots in New York and Philadelphia were organized by people working for the Salvation Syndicate. It took me a long time on the computer and a dozen stolen access codes, but I have enough material to convince the Church hierarchy that you are contributing to the upheaval in the laity.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Greene but without conviction.

“No, it’s not,” said Clancy. “Or you wouldn’t be sitting here listening to me. I can prove some of the rioters aren’t Catholic at all, but volunteers from the Williamson organization, specifically instructed to cause trouble. I can also prove that several of these so-called spontaneous riots were carefully timed to make the most of the international news programs. Your motives are questionable at best. I’m sure you don’t want the Church to find out all the things I have.”

“It wouldn’t be possible,” Greene said.

Clancy clicked his tongue in disapproval. “My uncle might not speak to me, but there is nothing stopping me from putting my files in his hands. He will know what to do after that. And he will be believed, Mister Greene. I know the Curia and the College of Cardinals both have high regard for him.” He gave Greene a little time to absorb all this. “I don’t want to throw a spanner into the works if I don’t have to. I know the riots in LA were Cardinal Walgren’s doing; he’s spiteful about this Chinese woman. You don’t need to account for them.”

“Good of you,” said Greene sourly, who had reached the same conclusions about the riots in Los Angeles.

“I think,” Clancy went on, “that you might want to have a few words with Dominique, Cardinal Hetre. Cardinal Walgren is a trifle too obvious and his…connections are unpleasant.” He did his best to make his smile reassuring. “What can it hurt you? You won’t get contaminated by Catholicism—it doesn’t rub off, you know.”

“I don’t find your witticisms very amusing, Mister McEllton. Perhaps you could spare me.” Greene stared hard at Clancy, his eyes flat. “Why should I bother to speak to Cardinal Hetre? He and your uncle served the Vatican together. There is no reason for Cardinal Hetre not to visit your uncle.”

“Possibly. But I think you might find him interesting. What’s the worst thing that can happen if you do this? You can find out that Cardinal Hetre supports the new Pope. You’re no more badly off than before if that is confirmed. You could discover, however, that Cardinal Hetre shares your worries, in which case you might make common cause with him, and have help from someone inside the Church.” He cleared his throat. “It would require someone to be a messenger between you, and if that is the case, what would be more natural than the Cardinal and I meet during our visits to Uncle Neddy at the monastery?”

“For which we would pay you?” Greene suggested cynically.

“Naturally.” He could feel the power in his position and it thrilled him. Nothing else in life had satisfied him the way this rush of power did. He coughed once and tried not to gloat. “Nothing too high—that would lead to questions later on, I think. We don’t want anything that could reveal a deliberate escalation of activities. That would put certain agencies on the alert. Let’s set the price at the same one you’ve been paying all along for my chats with Uncle Neddy.”

“What if we found another go-between?” asked Greene, his menace unconvincing.

“That wouldn’t be very wise,” said Clancy.

“It might become necessary,” Greene told him, lifting his eyebrows to make it clear he wanted Clancy to think about what he said. “If something should happen to you, for instance.”

“Oh, if I had an accident, I’m afraid all the major international networks would be sent copies of my work files automatically. I have those files ready to send, and if I do not give the over-ride twice a day, the machine is programmed to put the material in all sorts of electronic mail.”

“That strikes me as being a lot of trouble to keep up. No offence intended, Mister McEllton.”

The little boy was screaming now; the duck had turned on him and was giving him several bruising pecks, honking as it attacked.

“Isn’t there something about being nibbled to death by ducks?” Clancy asked merrily. “Mister Greene, we’ve managed this far. Let’s keep it up. It’ll be easier for all of us. Let’s try a meeting. If you and Cardinal Hetre can’t agree, or aren’t interested in the same things, then basta, it’s over. I’ll give you my files and we can call it quits.” There would be copies of his files in his records if he ever needed them; he was certain Greene guessed as much.

“You’ve given this careful consideration.” It was neither a compliment nor an insult.

“I hope so. A man in my position has to keep his options flexible.” He grinned but his eyes took no part in it.

Greene stood up. “I can’t authorize this on my own.” He let himself be distracted by the sight of the parents of the boy—at least he assumed they were his parents—attempting to extricate their child from the assault of the outraged duck. At another time he might have found it amusing. “You’ll have to allow me a few days to speak to some of the others, tell them of your offer. In my own way, I’m not much more than a messenger myself, like you.”

“Score one for Greene,” said Clancy.

“I wouldn’t try to make any other arrangements until you hear from me. Shall we say at this place again in forty-eight hours?” He prided himself on being above violence, but at that moment he would have taken a great deal of satisfaction in delivering a punishing blow to Clancy McEllton’s head. “That will give my company time to evaluate the possible merit of your proposal.”

“Sounds fine to me,” said Clancy, anticipating another round of dickering before International Vision, Ltd. gave in. They would say yes, he was certain of it, out of curiosity if nothing else.

“In two days, then,” said Greene, turning away from the egregious Clancy. “We will probably require compensation if you cannot deliver the contact you offer. You might want to think that over. If you wish to raise the stakes this way, you increase your risk.”

“Fine,” said Clancy, convinced that Cardinal Hetre would be glad to find allies anywhere. “I’ll be ready and waiting.”

“Of course,” said Greene before he strolled away in the direction of the furious duck.

* * *

At the altar of his private chapel—shared only with a Belgian, an Ecuadorian, an Italian, and a New Zealander—Lorencz, Cardinal Bakony recited his prayers without thought. Word had come from Buda-Pest that day, warning him that there was about to be another change of government. Six governments in five years! The thought of it aggravated him, bringing out his intensely competitive spirit, the very spirit he had entered the Church to subdue.

He became more engrossed in his prayers, letting the familiar words wash over him, temporarily ending the turmoil that consumed him. It was bad enough, he thought, that the Church should be brought to this ultimate indignity; but now his own countrymen were behaving like schoolchildren, favoring first this clique then that one. He had promised Cardinal Lepescu that they would meet to discuss this latest development, and hoped that the cadaverous Romanian would have some suggestions they could agree upon and carry back to their respective countries before other border skirmishes erupted. There were so many factions now, and the Old Guard from the Russian days were relishing the constant upheaval limited democracy had brought. Perhaps, he thought, they would become like the old East Germans, living in self-imposed exile in Moscow and St. Petersburg against the day when the tide would again turn in their favor.

The sound of bells brought him to his feet. He reverenced the altar, crossing himself and whispering a last blessing before leaving the chapel to Cardinal Tondocello, who was still in precarious health.

He found Cardinal Lepescu at the entrance of the Cappella del Sacrissimo Sacramento, beside the Borrormini wrought-iron gates. “God give you good day,” he said in Hungarian, knowing that Cardinal Lepescu spoke the language fluently; Cardinal Bakony’s Romanian was rusty and dependant on his expertise in Latin.

“To you as well, Eminence,” said Cardinal Lepescu, his voice low but still caught in the echoing enormity of the Basilica. “And may He grant us more peace than He has been willing to of late.”

“Amen to that,” said Cardinal Bakony, crossing himself.

The Basilica was strangely empty, tourists having been barred from Saint Peter’s for the last three days. There had been a near riot earlier in the week and it was deemed prudent to close the Vatican for the time being, to avoid further disruption. Cardinal Lepescu stepped back, noticing two priests entering the transept, going past the Capella Gregoriana.

“What is the news from home, Eminence?” Cardinal Lepescu asked, not amenable to wasting time in pleasantries. “I pray it is better than mine has been. I have been told that there were riots in Bucuresti and Cluj last night. In Cluj they brought out the militia to control the crowds. The Catholics there are protesting the new Pope already, because she is a Communist. They do not trust Communists. They are afraid her presence will give the Old Guard ideas again.”

“Oh, yes. I hear the same thing, played to a different tune,” sighed Cardinal Bakony. “And the new government, cobbled together out of hostile factions, cannot hope to find a way to stop the insanity. I have sometimes wondered if they wish to stop those riots—as long as the population is up-in-arms about the Pope, they are not apt to rebel about anything else. The government can better afford the discontent of its people directed toward the Church than itself.” He indicated the vast interior of Saint Peter’s with a comprehensive wave of his hand. “The Church is always a target when politics are unstable.”

“The Church is always a target,” said Cardinal Lepescu. “Politics do not matter.” He had begun to walk toward the Portico. “Not that they might not have a point,” he went on. “The Communists are not trustworthy, and Moscow’s Old Guard have been very quiet about this Pope.”

“What could Moscow say? It is hardly a Catholic country. And Moscow and Beijing are not good friends,” observed Cardinal Bakony.

“But that is not to say they could not turn this development to their advantage. A Communist in the Vatican, on the Throne of Saint Peter lends a legitimacy to the cause it has not had in years. The Old Guard could find it very useful if only they have a way to exploit it.” Cardinal Lepescu was almost a head taller than Cardinal Bakony, which made their conversation awkward. “They must have some expectations of her.”

“But how could they? Beijing may, perhaps, for she is Chinese, and an official, but what could Moscow’s Old Guard hope to gain? I don’t like to call them Old Guard. It makes them sound like helpless, toothless old lions, and they are not.” Cardinal Bakony watched Cardinal Lepescu with increasing doubts. “Is there some information you have that changes things?”

Cardinal Lepescu hesitated as they stepped into the Piazza di San Pietro. “Only a rumor. Not even that. It is as if I have overheard a whisper spoken in sleep.” He was in a cassock, Cardinal Bakony in a business suit. They crossed the empty piazza slowly, paying no attention to the enormous and silent crowd that waited beyond the pillared embrace of the piazza; they were cordoned off from the Vatican grounds and kept in check by Roman police and Swiss Guards.

“What is this…whisper?” asked Cardinal Bakony.

Cardinal Lepescu stared up at the balcony where the new Pope would bless the city and the world. “There is a rumor that the KGB has taken an interest in Zhuang Renxin. According to my Bishop in Cluj, one of the officers of the State Police made a remark at a private gathering. He said we should be grateful to the Russians, for without the KGB, we would have been unable to get the woman out of China.”

At this, Cardinal Bakony did his best to laugh. “Typical Russian disinformation,” he decided aloud. “That’s what I mean about the Old Guard being dangerous. Undoubtedly the KGB has taken an interest in Zhuang Renxin; it is precisely the sort of thing they are supposed to monitor. Therefore it is just what I would expect them to do. But rest assured, they do not want that Chinese woman here any more than most of us do.” He glanced toward the silent demonstrators, noticing that a few were nuns in old-fashioned habits.

“They believe that it is blasphemous for a woman to be Pope,” said Cardinal Lepescu, nodding toward the mob. “They believe that the College of Cardinals has been deceived.”

“That is what the American preacher claims on his television shows,” said Cardinal Bakony contemptuously. “They are fools who believe that.”

Cardinal Lepescu gave a slow-motion shrug. “How can we say that, when the issue may well divide the Church? How many riots have we learned of in the last three days? It must be over twenty. You do not know how many of our Catholics at home are turning to the Orthodox Church, because they believe we have succumbed to the wiles of the Devil, or the demands of internationalism.”

“The Orthodox Church isn’t as strong in Hungary as it is in Romania; we have our share of Protestants, however, and a few new cults of neo-pagans,” said Cardinal Bakony. “But your warning is well-taken. I will alert my Bishops to be more diligent.”

“That will not suffice, I fear,” said Cardinal Lepescu. “We cannot defy God’s will, yet our flocks demand it of us.” He looked away from Cardinal Bakony. “I never thought it would come to this. I assumed she would be kept in China and our claims denied. I have been preparing myself to support one of our own number to fill the vacancy, and now—!”

“Yes,” said Cardinal Bakony. “Cardinal van Hooven announced his morning that he has had another call from Cardinal Mendosa.”

“If I were not what I am, I could find it in my heart to curse that man,” said Cardinal Lepescu with quiet passion. “There is no more dangerous man in the Church than Charles, Cardinal Mendosa of Houston, Texas.”

“There is, sadly, a more dangerous woman,” said Cardinal Bakony.

“If she is in the Church at all,” said Cardinal Lepescu. “Has the Curia reached a decision about that? Have they decided how she is to be baptized?”

“Not yet,” said Cardinal Bakony. “Who would have thought we would ever be confronted with the problem of baptizing an elected Pope?”

“It has occurred before,” said Cardinal Lepescu.

“In what century?” Cardinal Bakony demanded.

With a gesture that signaled his concession of the point, Cardinal Lepescu said, “The thirteenth century. The man became an Anti-Pope over it, since he was a Jew.” He paused and smiled. “Like Jesus.”

“A thirteenth century Anti-Pope!” Cardinal Bakony jeered. “What bearing can that have on us now? I see more reason to put faith in your rumor about the KGB than in anything from so distant a time, and about so dubious a figure. The public—not just Catholics but everyone else—doesn’t care what happened so long ago. It means nothing to them, has no bearing on their lives. They are concerned with now, with borders that open and close and change by the hour, with insufficient food and non-existent medical resources, with economic policies that are never the same two days in a row, with education created for the demands of the Second World War. They are worried that their money might not be worth anything next week, or refused as unreliable when they travel. They wonder how they will eat and if there will be a school where they can send their children without spending all their savings on decent instruction. They fear they will be responsible for their aged parents when they cannot care adequately for themselves. They are afraid that the government will betray them, that the laws will not protect them, that their faith will not sustain them. They dread next year, because it could be worse than this year. They are worried about the air they breathe and the purity of their water, and the wholesomeness of their food.” He stopped as if all his energy had deserted him. “I hear them, Eminence. It is difficult to bear.”

“It isn’t our burden; it belongs to the widow from Hongya. It is for us to honor her mandate.” Cardinal Lepescu said it as if he were giving away the most treasured relics of the Church. “But I am troubled about that rumor, Eminence.”

“It isn’t necessary to concern yourself,” said Cardinal Bakony. “I would be more inclined to worry about Beijing. We can deal with Moscow these days, now that they have permitted us to establish an Internunciature in two years. Beijing is another matter: the government will want assurances from Zhuang, without doubt, and she will accommodate them, because she is a Magistrate and loyal to her government. Consider her position. She will be among strangers, using unfamiliar forms in unfamiliar tongues. You cannot blame her for keeping to the ways she knows and honoring her racial and political heritage. It is Beijing that will profit from her tenure here, not Moscow.”

“There will be disruptions, no matter what is done,” said Cardinal Lepescu in sepulchral tones. “There has been disruption already, of a sort more encompassing than anything I could have foreseen. I have fears, late at night, that it is possible the Protestants are right, and we have been duped by a clever stratagem. We must find a way to minimize the damage to the Church, and to Catholics all over the world.”

Cardinal Bakony looked narrowly at Cardinal Lepescu. “Eminence, you are not suggesting we openly oppose her, are you? I could not advocate a schism, no matter how distasteful I find this Chinese woman.”

“Don’t say so, not yet,” suggested Cardinal Lepescu. “We are not like western Europeans, or the South Americans, with the majority of our population adhering to our faith. We are beleaguered in our countries, and we must be the more wary because of it. Even if religion were not in question, politics would be. We must think of our faith, how fragile it is in these times, and we must swear to preserve it, no matter what may come.” His dark eyes, stark in his pale, lined face held Cardinal Bakony in their baleful stare.

“It isn’t wise,” said Cardinal Bakony quietly. “If we oppose her, we could do more harm—”

“No,” said Cardinal Lepescu. “You must not allow yourself to be seduced by the promise of internationalism. We are not asked to consider the universal as humanists, but as those sworn to uphold the spiritual well-being of those whose faith places them in our care. We have an obligation to keep them from error and fear. Meditate and pray, Eminence. Turn your eyes inward, to your soul, and you will stand with us, with those who are intent on preserving the Holy Roman Catholic Church from ruin.”

Cardinal Bakony stared at Cardinal Lepescu. He wished he knew which of the prophets Cardinal Lepescu resembled, for certainly he must resemble one of them. “I’ll…I’ll do what I can.” He began to dread the supper he had agreed to share with the irrepressible Cardinal Cadini, who was sure to put pressure on him from the opposite point of view.

“Deo gratias,” said Cardinal Lepescu, crossing himself.

* * *

Along the three terraces of the fields there was a narrow walkway; Mendosa followed Zhuang along it, inspecting her fields in the warm early morning light. Willie Foot walked between them, translating back and forth for them. “For all the world like a Greek chorus,” he said as they started the inspection.

“This is planted in millet,” she informed him as they crossed one of the several drainage ditches on a little foot-bridge that was scarcely more than a stile. “Last year the crop was good, but our spring was cold this year and I do not think it will yield so much.”

“How do you treat the fields in winter?” Mendosa asked.

“They are covered in dung and then spent straw,” said Magistrate Zhuang. “That way the land does not fail.”

“How delightful,” added Willie, who had relayed the information to Mendosa.

“Shut up, Willie; just translate,” said Mendosa with a wry smile. “Ask the Worthy Magistrate if the straw and dung are plowed in before the fields are planted.”

“Most certainly,” she answered. “It is necessary to do this in order to make the best use of the land.” She halted and pointed toward the northeast. “Look, you can see where they are putting in the new bridge. The old one washed out eight years ago. This one is wider and stronger.”

“Seems good to me,” said Mendosa as he shaded his eyes and dutifully looked in the direction indicated.

“What do you know about bridges?” asked Willie, after translating for Magistrate Zhuang.

“Not very much. Except that the Pope is a bridge-builder. The Pontiff, or pontifex means a bridge-builder. So I’ll make note of any bridge she points out to me, and I’ll do my best to admire it.” Mendosa waited while Willie struggled to explain his remarks. “Tell her, Willie, that the Pope can choose the kind of bridge she wants to build—she can span the distance between people or the distance between people and God. Or both, for all I know.”

“We’re getting pretty esoteric here,” Willie warned him.

Mendosa was not put off. “I should hope so,” he responded with an emotion that was less than indignation but more than umbrage. “That’s what I’m supposed to be doing here, isn’t it? Aren’t we expected to explain the nature of her work to her? How can I do that and not get into esoteric areas? The Papacy is esoteric.” He looked down at his boots and saw that mud had built up around the heel. “Oh, hell. I forgot to bring my leather conditioner.”

“What is it that distresses you?” Magistrate Zhuang asked in response to the tone of his voice. When Willie clarified the matter, she smiled. “We have leather conditioners here in China. We might not have the fancy boots, but there are preparations that will take care of leather.”

“Thank you,” said Mendosa in Chinese when Willie had done his job.

They went on a little further, walking more carefully as the path dropped down, getting muddier.

“I hope we get that Chinese Bible here soon,” said Willie. “I won’t have to try to translate Matthew, Mark, Luke and John any more.”

“Yes,” said Mendosa. “Though I’m sure you’re doing just fine.” He stopped as they reached a rivulet that spread over the path. “Are we supposed to walk through this?”

Magistrate Zhuang indicated a place where the edge of the field had been worn down. “It must be repaired at once,” she announced. “We cannot grow our crops properly if these walls are not kept in good order. The fields will not have the right amount of water for a high yield and the millet is of poor quality. I will issue instructions.” She looked at Mendosa. “We will have to return to my house. It is probably just as well, for I wish to continue to learn about the Church.”

When Willie finished, he added, “I hope my throat can hold up.”

“We could use one of the soldiers to translate,” Mendosa suggested with a wicked twinkle in his eye.

“No, thank you,” said Willie at once. “I’d rather entrust my secrets to the yellowest rag in Fleet Street.” He stood aside so Magistrate Zhuang could pass him and lead the way back. “But if I end up too hoarse to talk, you’ll have to make allowances for me.”

“Certainly,” said Mendosa, bringing up the rear.

Magistrate Zhuang indicated a place ahead on the path. “You can see rats have come here. It is always the way when there is food about. If you have people or pigs you are certain to have rats, as well.”

“And some of them have human skins,” added Mendosa when Willie relayed her words. “Tell her that.”

“Very clever,” said Zhuang, laughing at Mendosa’s remark. “Yes, I can see that is true.”

Mendosa grew serious. “I am pleased you are amused, Worthy Magistrate, but I am also concerned. This is as much a warning as it is a humorous turn of phrase.”

“For a man of religion,” said Magistrate Zhuang as she picked her way over the patch of debris, “you are very worldly, Mendosa. You tell me that you are concerned with the spiritual well-being of Catholics around the world, and yet you speak of rats and intend that I should consider some of your colleagues rats. How spiritual can you be if you make such assertions?”

“Spiritual enough to know that spiritual needs are only part of what human beings require, and that for most of us, the more worldly ones come first. Men who are starving, without shelter, without friends, need food and a house and a family as much as they need the chance to pray. And if those starving men are given food and shelter and friends, they will know their prayers have been answered.” He was serious now, and he wanted to be sitting down, looking directly into Zhuang’s eyes.

“This is getting tricky again, dear boy,” said Willie. “It’s probably stimulating my intellect in ways it hasn’t been since university, but in the middle of a millet farm, it seems somehow…inappropriate.”

“What would you consider an appropriate place?” Mendosa asked him sweetly. “Tell me what Zhuang’s trying to say, will you?”

“In this country we learn that food and shelter and the people are all that matters. You speak of spiritual needs, but there is nothing to say that these needs are real, as hunger is real, that they are anything more than superstition instigated to control the population with fears that have no basis in fact. This is a very base thing to do, to scare people into behaving the way you wish them to behave. It is why religion has always been the enemy of the people.” She had matched his tone, her manner stern. “What do you require of me, Mendosa? When I am in Rome, will you insist that I continue these superstitions?”

“No,” said Mendosa as they reached the dirt road leading up to her house. “I won’t. Some of the other Cardinals might, but I won’t.”

“Are you certain of that?” she inquired, pausing on the road to meet his gaze.

“Yes. I won’t say it will be easy. You see, I do think that the spiritual needs are real. I think that if they are neglected, something in the person suffers, as he would if he went without food or clothing.” He regarded her steadily. “For some people, their political ideals is what sustains them. For others, it is religion. But these things have merit not only because they feed the body, but they feed the mind as well, and the soul. The mind and soul can hunger, too.”

“You are skilled in argument, Mendosa,” Magistrate Zhuang allowed.

“Well, you may convert her yet,” added Willie when he finished translating.

“Actually,” said Mendosa, imitating Willie’s accent perfectly, “I was rather hoping she would convert me.”

Chapter 15

At the conclusion of morning Mass, Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung hastened out of the Vatican in order to meet with Cardinal Hetre and some unknown associate of his in a place where they would not be noticed. Although he did not like wearing secular garments, he had made grudging concession to Cardinal Hetre’s request that he take care not to be conspicuous. His business suit was undertaker-charcoal and his shirt was dull, pale mauve. He had chosen a tie of dark-grey-and-mulberry. He had used only one of his permitted lapel pins, which rankled as he rode in a taxi toward the prearranged destination.

The driver took to the road with gusto, charging through narrow streets and narrower distances between other vehicles with an insouciant smile and a negligent hand caressing the steering wheel, as if traffic was the last thing on his mind. He had tried a few remarks to his imposing passenger, then shrugged and sang quietly to himself as he headed for the Forum. He decided that his taciturn and disapproving passenger must be one of the bankers who had recently been besieging the Vatican. He certainly looked sour enough for it.

At the Forum, Cardinal Jung paid off the driver and gave him a minuscule tip. He then made his way down the Via dei Fori Imperialo, jostling his way through tourists. Their numbers had been burgeoning in Rome since the election of the new Pope had been announced. It was a bad sign, thought Cardinal Jung, annoyed that he had not been permitted his proper vestments, for then none of these people would dare to shove him, or run around him.

“Your Eminence,” said a man he did not know.

Cardinal Jung stood straighter and touched his tie-clasp, wishing it were his pectoral crucifix. “Yes?”

“Cardinal Hetre asked me to escort you to your appointment.” He was polite, a thin nonentity of a man speaking Italian with a strong British accent. “My name is Clancy McEllton, Your Eminence. Father McEllton’s nephew. I am honored to meet you.”

Cardinal Jung extended his ring and was about to motion McEllton to kneel when he remembered his surroundings and the requirements of caution. “We’ll attend to this later,” he said, changing the offering of his ring to a wave.

Clancy McEllton did not quite smile, though the antics of the stiff Swiss Cardinal amused him. “We’ll meet Cardinal Hetre up this way,” he said, turning to walk up the Via Sacra toward the Arch of Titus. As they passed the Temple of Romulus, Cardinal Hetre, wearing dark slacks and a dark tweed jacket over a black turtleneck, strolled out to meet them. “We have a little way to go,” said McEllton.

“I can never come here,” said Cardinal Jung in his most portentous voice, “that I do not think of the suffering of those first Christians who followed Saint Peter to martyrdom.”

“This place gives me a headache,” Cardinal Hetre complained. “What benefit is there in remembering the past? It’s in ruins and it deserves to be. It only glorifies that which is not worthy of glory.”

Clancy McEllton did not want to be caught—literally—in the middle of a debate, so he said, “There is another man who is joining us. His name is Greene. His is not a Catholic, but Eminences, he has many concerns that march with yours. He is acting for the benefit of Christians everywhere. I am serving as his agent, so that you will be able to exchange views in…neutrality.” He saw a group of American tourists go by, obviously a family, the father carrying the youngest on his shoulders. He’ll come to regret that before the day’s much older, McEllton thought. He was wondering if he might think the same thing of himself in this endeavor.

“I have visited your uncle recently, McEllton,” said Cardinal Hetre.

“Yes, I know,” said Clancy. “As I understand it, you are the only one of the Cardinals who does.”

Cardinal Jung stopped walking and stood very straight. “If that is intended as a rebuke—”

This was going to be more difficult than Clancy had first anticipated. He schooled his features to an expression of conciliation. “It was merely an observation, Your Eminence. I didn’t intend to imply anything.” He had halted to say this so as not to compound the affront to Cardinal Jung. “Come, Eminence. Excuse my lapse. It was not intended to offend either of you. Mister Greene is still waiting to speak to you both.”

Cardinal Jung took a little time to ponder this. It would never do to admit a mistake too easily; his long experience had taught him that if nothing else. “Very well. But I want no such remarks made again. I hope you understand me.”

“Very well, Your Eminence,” said Clancy, thinking that Greene would have his hands full with these two.

As they neared the Arch of Titus, Rufus Greene appeared. He was neatly dressed, though not quite so conservatively as the two Cardinals. He shook hands with Clancy, saying, “McEllton, thank you for this service.”

“His Eminence, Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung,” said Clancy, though these introductions were not strictly necessary since Mister Greene most certainly knew the men on sight. “And His Eminence, Cardinal Hetre.”

Cardinal Hetre shook Greene’s hand; Cardinal Jung did not.

“Gentlemen,” said Greene, looking as if the warmth of the morning did not bother him at all. “I have been given to understand that you are concerned for the welfare of your Church and the well-being of Christians everywhere.”

“Yes,” said Cardinal Jung with a scowl.

“We pray for all the world,” said Cardinal Hetre. He had taken half a dozen aspirin before coming to the Forum. They had not done him much good, for the gnawing at the back of his eyes was still there. His physician had to be wrong in saying that there was no reason for these headaches.

“I’m sure any Christian must do that,” said Greene smoothly. “And surely the most recent events in the Church have given you much distress and pain. I can’t imagine how it would be any other way with you. Only those blinded by zeal could think that God would possibly elect such an unsuitable Pope for these difficult times.”

“The whole thing is ridiculous,” said Cardinal Jung. “No doubt, in time, we will uncover the means by which this travesty was committed.”

“I hope so,” said Greene, “for there are so many who question the origin of this development. They are not satisfied that the election was sufficiently scrutinized. Some even suspect that the agency by which this election was accomplished was not entirely human. But,” he went on, indicating a shallow alcove in the ancient wall, “I’m sure you are aware of these reservations already. I think if we stepped out of the way, we might be more private.”

Cardinal Hetre moved at once, hoping that the small amount of shade afforded by the wall would ease him. “Those who say it is a conspiracy are wrong, for I wrote the name twice, and I am part of no conspiracy. But I do not want to cry ‘Satan’ before I have sufficient reason to. You are in error if you agree with those who have already assumed that this was a diabolical act.” He glared at Cardinal Jung. “I am as eager as anyone to preserve the Church, and if that means having a Chinese widow to serve the will of God, so be it. However, if the election is intended to destroy the Church, then I will oppose it no matter how many times my hand scrawls those characters.”

On the street above there was a loud snarl of motorcycles and an exchange of threats and insults.

Cardinal Jung did not disagree with what Cardinal Hetre said, but was disgruntled because he had not said them first. “It is all very well for you to reserve judgment, or speak of perusing records,” he said when Greene did not speak and Cardinal Hetre fell silent. “But we must begin to examine this election at once, before that…Texan! brings the woman to Italy. Once she is here, it will be very difficult to refute her, and politically damaging, for the People’s Republic does not like to be held up to ridicule.”

“Diplomatic offence should be avoided at all costs, of course. But suppose it could be demonstrated—” said Greene, his seamless interjection so perfect that Clancy McEllton’s respect for the man increased significantly.

A young woman with twins in a perambulator went by, her once-pretty face marred by deep lines of worry.

“What could be demonstrated?” asked Clancy, because someone had to.

“That there is a very clever plot, from a government antithetical to the Church and religion in general. Suppose it could be shown that this entire election had been rigged, not by Satan, but by his minions, the atheistic Communists of China.” Greene looked from one Cardinal to the other. “There are ways to deceive, to hypnotize, drug, confuse, so that an election of this sort could be contrived.”

A dozen youths in their early teens ambled by the place where the men stood, their leader explaining to them in Czech how the excavations had been done, and what would be dug up next. All of them wore identical hunter-green blazers.

“How?” demanded Cardinal Hetre. “What would produce the same results in all of us?”

“There are a number of possibilities. You might have received minute quantities of drugs in your food—is all the kitchen staff completely loyal to the Church and are you really sure of that loyalty?—and then some sort of subliminal message could have been played while you slept, so that each of you was carrying a post-hypnotic suggestion, the result of increased suggestibility. Don’t you think it could have happened that way?” His smile was for the sake of formality; it had no meaning.

Cardinal Jung goggled at him. “We are not weak men,” he announced.

Greene retreated a step with a deferential gesture. “No, of course not. But you were in restricted circumstances, and most of you were tired, so I have been told.” He folded his arms. “Eminences, consider what I have said, and let me know if you wish me to act to discredit this impostor before she is permitted to leave the People’s Republic of China. If it suits your purposes as well as it suits ours, then we can act together. But this must be done quickly.” He nudged Clancy. “This man can serve as your messenger if you need to speak with me directly. If that is not what you wish, then I will give you a telephone number. We have ten days at the most to put our plan into action.”

“Only ten?” asked Cardinal Hetre in dismay. “That is not time enough, I fear. Many of the other Cardinals do not see the danger of our position. A few actually support this election and are determined to bring this woman here. Cardinal Cadini is the most vocal of them.”

Cardinal Jung snorted his derision. “The man is nothing more than a worn-out clown, concerned with reconciling this nonsensical humanism to the spiritual might of the Church. No one takes him seriously.”

Greene lifted his brows. “He is still very popular.”

“But with whom?” Cardinal Jung countered. “The press?”

“Never underestimate the press,” said Greene very seriously. “If we are able to discredit this Chinese woman, it must be through the press and newsmedia. It cannot be done any other way. No more scorn, Eminence, if you please, at least where the press is concerned.”

Very few people dared to reprimand Cardinal Jung, and none of them were Protestant. He was about to remonstrate with this presumptuous fellow when he realized it was more sensible to hear him out. “I do not share your high opinion of the newsmedia, but I will give you the benefit of the doubt for the time being.”

“Very generous, Eminence,” said Greene, biding his sarcasm effectively.

“What if we do not endorse your plan, Mister Greene?” asked Cardinal Hetre, his frown only partly due to his concern for this tactic.

Greene was much too experienced to shrug, but he was able to show that much of this was out of his hands. “I suppose I should tell you that something will be arranged through other channels. There are others who are already dubious about this woman and will understand the need to discredit her. You are experiencing conflict because you cannot easily separate the good of the Papacy and the good of the Church, but I assure you in this instance that it is necessary for you to destroy this woman’s position before she leaves China. If you do not do it, she will have the advantage of you. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, no matter who possesses what.”

“In this case, the possession might be of a nature that is outside the law,” said Cardinal Hetre; it was as close as he ever came to making a joke. He gave a crooked smile. “I thought that if we found her, she would refuse to reign. I never thought she would agree. The only reason I consented to look for her was so that with her refusal we could get on with electing a real Pope.”

Greene shook his head. “Eminences, there are those who say that she is the end of the Church—”

“They say that because of the picture frames,” muttered Cardinal Jung. “Superstitious nonsense. The Church is not determined by how many pictures can fit on a wall.” He stared at Greene. “You will go ahead with your plan whether we help you or not, isn’t that true?”

“Yes,” said Greene, his manner apologetic; his eyes were like glass.

“If we expose you, you will call the College of Cardinals dupes of the Chinese Communists who are looking to destroy the Church,” he went on. “You have no need to threaten me. I can understand your ploy, Mister Greene. I may sympathize with what you want to do. But I do not like to see the Church exposed to ridicule.”

“You’re a little late for that,” said Clancy brightly, and was waved to silence by Greene.

“Then help us,” said Greene, looking from Cardinal Jung to Cardinal Hetre. “Join us, so that we may preserve your Church and the Christian faith.”

Cardinal Hetre pressed his finger and thumb on either side of his nose, though this did little to alleviate the ache. “It would also put us in your debt, Mister Greene, yours and the people you represent. In time you would become as great a danger to the Catholic Church as the Chinese woman is.”

“But not for some time,” said Greene, who had anticipated this argument. “There is time for us to make suitable arrangements that will embarrass no one.”

Clancy McEllton had seen that expression on many faces and he had learned to know it for the lie it was. He glanced at the two Cardinals wondering if they, too, knew what they faced. They ought to, he thought, coming from the Vatican. “I’ll be at your service,” he reminded them.

“I don’t see how we can compromise the Church this way,” said Cardinal Jung. “It isn’t correct of us to ally ourselves with any project that is not directly our own.”

Cardinal Hetre was not convinced. “You say you will release this story?” He watched Greene nod. “It may become necessary for us to reconsider our position then.” He looked toward Cardinal Jung. “If our election is subjected to…the kind of questioning he proposes, the damage it does will extend to future elections as well as this present one, and we cannot expect to survive unscathed. No matter how galling it is to have this Chinese widow, there is consolation in knowing that when she is gone we may once again return to our proper roles. If we are forced to change the process of election, then we will leave all future Popes a heritage of doubt that would cripple the Church forever.” As he said it, the oppression of this prospect took hold of him. He had trouble taking a deep breath.

Greene watched him, unaware of how cynical he looked. “I see you have grasped the heart of the problem, Eminence.”

For no reason he could identify, Clancy McEllton felt suddenly cold.

Cardinal Jung snorted. “Every Protestant movement thinks it will have strength enough to bring the Church down, and not one has succeeded.”

“True, the Church has endured every assault from outside its precincts,” said Greene, nudging McEllton as if they could share the joke between them. “But this time it isn’t Protestants you have to fear, it is your own elected Pope.”

* * *

The Houston riot was the worst in the USA. Windows on the conspicuously modern Cathedral Church of the Four Evangelists were broken and graffiti were scrawled on the walls over the murals of the Stations of the Cross. The baptismal font was filled with excrement and a dead piglet covered in sweet-and-sour sauce was left on the altar. All the details from the seven wounded priests, to the dead police officers, to three hundred forty-four arrested rioters, were gleefully and meticulously covered on the international news, since the Four Evangelists was Charles, Cardinal Mendosa’s home base. All of the reports stressed Cardinal Mendosa’s role in the recent efforts of the Vatican to locate the new Pope. All but one news report mentioned he was currently in China; the report which left this out originated in Beijing.

In Hongya, Mendosa watched the coverage on television with Zhuang Renxin and Willie Foot as they sat in her office chaperoned by an army lieutenant who was doing his best to be invisible. The Cardinal’s expression was set but saddened steadily as he saw his beloved cathedral trashed. He ground his teeth and said little.

“Is this what I am to expect when I go to Rome?” Zhuang Renxin asked as the report concluded. She was not angry, but she expected an explanation. “And these riots are going to continue?”

“That was Houston, in Texas. Not Rome,” Mendosa told her. “But I won’t deny it could happen. If there’s trouble, there’s the Swiss Guard to protect you—not the ones in the Renaissance costumes; they’re there for the tourists—the real Vatican police. We have very good security at the Vatican. They can handle worse than that.” He listened to Willie translate and realized he had picked up a few more words of Chinese. He noticed that the lieutenant was nodding very slightly, revealing his comprehension.

“I am very distressed by what I have seen,” said Magistrate Zhuang.

“No more than I, Worthy Magistrate,” Mendosa responded. He looked at Willie. “Keep an ear open for me as the reports come in, will you? I want to know if Father Cooke comes through this all right. They said he was in critical condition, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” said Willie, knowing Mendosa well enough to be aware of how upset he was under his controlled exterior, and worried for him.

“He’s a good man. And a pretty good priest. Tad Cooke. He must be sixty-five now. The kids love him. He’s good at sports and telling jokes. He never talks down to them. Why did he have to be the one to get a fractured skull. God forgive me for the thought, but why couldn’t it have been Daniel Ritchie? He’s the one who’s always sending little missives to Vince Walgren, and he knows more about illegal drugs in Texas than all the law-enforcement squads rolled into one.” At that Mendosa crossed himself and laughed self-consciously. “I’ll have to do penance for that. None of them deserved the kind of treatment the mob dished out. And neither did Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,” he added, referring once again to the cathedral.

As Willie did his best to translate this, Zhuang Renxin held up her hand to make a point. “What is penance?” she asked. “Why must you do it for what you said about your friend Tad Cooke?”

“Penance is what you do when you have sinned,” Mendosa said. “I told you about sin.”

“Yes; the person who errs is one who sins,” said Zhuang. “I do not see why concern for your friend should be an error.”

Mendosa, when he heard Willie’s translation, shook his head. “It’s a sin because I gave special consideration to one friend, and not to priests in general. To make it worse, I wished harm on a priest I dislike and distrust. Favor and disfavor in this situation is not appropriate.”

“I know that the benefit of all is more significant than the benefit of one,” said Zhuang, “but I still fail to see why concern for your friend was an error, or why you would prefer ill befall one who is untrustworthy. If it were for me to decide as a Magistrate, I would not require you to do penance. I might ask that you do something to aid others in need as well as your friend, but I can see no good coming from penance for wishing your friend well.” She was puzzled by the strange look Mendosa gave her. “I do not mean—” she began, Willie striving to keep up with her.

“If you tell me that I ought not do penance,” said Mendosa very slowly and carefully, “then I will not do it. You have not been elevated officially yet, because you have not had the tiara placed on your head, but Holiness, you are my superior, and I will follow your instruction.” He lowered his head while the television flashed on a picture of Moscow where it was rumored there had been an upheaval in the GRU.

“I have told you I think it is foolish to call me ‘Holiness,’” said Zhuang severely. “You persist in calling me ‘Holiness.’”

“It is your title now,” Mendosa said to her. “But I will offer you this compromise: when we are private I will still call you Worthy Magistrate.” He was pleased at her approving nod. “Listen to me, Zhuang Renxin,” he went on more urgently, “with the others, accept the title, insist on it. You may not believe in it, you may not like it, but if you do not use it, you will lose the respect of the Cardinals, and that will be difficult to maintain as it is. Give them no opportunity to denigrate your position, because once you do, you will be at their mercy.”

“But you have said that the Pope is the final authority,” said Zhuang in consternation.

“Yes.” Mendosa tried to explain without getting into particulars. He would be able to do that later, while they traveled to Rome. “But Popes come and go. The College of Cardinals and the Curia endure. They can be very patient, because—”

“Because in time I will die, and they will find someone who is more what they want?” she asked.

“Charles,” said Willie when he had translated her question, “she is headed back into deep water again.”

“Yes, I know,” said Mendosa. “Tell her this. The Princes of the Church are very powerful men. They are ambitious.”

“And you?” asked Zhuang when Mendosa’s words were translated.

“I understood that,” Mendosa told Willie. “Yes, Holiness, I am ambitious. I want power. But there are two kinds of power, Worthy Magistrate. There is the kind that is hoarded, as some men hoard gold and weapons and food. They want to have it, and they long for it more like a glutton lusts for satiation. There are others who seek power because it gives them the means to do things. If these men are wrong, they do great harm. For better or worse, I am one of them.”

“Of that I was certain from the start,” said Zhuang, her eyes bright with amusement. “I am no stranger to the seeking of power.”

“Are you ambitious?” Mendosa asked with surprise.

“No,” she said after giving her answer some thought. “No, I do not think I am. I have wished to see changes, it is true, for change is the natural order of the world, but not change only for my exclusive benefit, and not at the cost of others. If I were ambitious, I would not have agreed to go with you to Rome, for any goals I have for my own achievements are here in Hongya and Szechwan.” She let Willie translate that as she poured tea for all of them and then turned off the television which was showing a program on the construction of a new international sports arena in Beijing. “No, what has happened to me is not the result of my ambitions. Why would I aspire to such an office as Pope, when I am who I am? Yet it has been given to me, though I did not seek it, and denied to those who sought it and thought themselves entitled to have it. How am I to regard this? It may be that I am being brought to this for the reasons you say and it may be that this is another way for the world to balance its forces. There is no way to find out but to go to Rome and see.”

* * *

“They’re up to something,” Vitale, Cardinal Cadini remarked to Piet, Cardinal van Hooven as he looked across the Raffaelle chapel to where Cardinal Hetre knelt beside Cardinal Jung. “Those two haven’t been cozy in years and now look at them.”

“It’s just Cardinal Hetre showing his true colors,” said Cardinal van Hooven, trying to concentrate on his prayers. “We’ll discuss this more after coffee.”

“I had a call from Cardinal Mendosa this morning. He said he phoned early because he wanted to be sure of getting through. Apparently the load on communications between China and Europe has reached an all-time high.” If Cardinal Cadini was aware of interfering with Cardinal van Hooven’s religious observations, there was no sign of it.

Cardinal van Hooven gave up. “Does he know about the riot in Houston?” he asked, ignoring the sharp glance from Andrew, Cardinal Aquilino of Chicago.

“Yes. He saw it on the news there. They gave it very thorough coverage, he says.” Cardinal Cadini pursed his lips. “Not that I want to say anything that might be regarded as critical of Cardinal Mendosa—because he’s braver than most of us are—but I’m afraid the severity of that riot is going to cause some problems for him when he gets back. If the people of Houston are really so opposed to Zhuang, Cardinal Mendosa might not find his cathedral a very happy place.”

“But we are not certain the riot was a…a Catholic affair,” Cardinal van Hooven reminded Cardinal Cadini. He crossed himself and rose, knowing that he was not in the proper frame of mind to keep vigil any longer. He touched Cardinal Cadini on the shoulder. “Come. We might as well discuss this where we won’t give offence.” At the rear of the chapel he bowed to the altar, remarking to Cardinal Cadini as he did, “I always feel that I am showing as much reverence for the art here as the presence of God.”

“Heresy,” said Cardinal Cadini at his mildest. “To confuse Raffaelle Sanzio with God.” He kept pace with the Dutch Cardinal as they made their way toward his quarters. “God’s Michaelangelo, not Raffaelle.”

“He certainly is. Are you being permitted coffee these days?” Cardinal van Hooven asked as they climbed the stairs.

“It depends on the mood Sister Fabiola is in. She reads signs in the air, I think, and then decides what I am allowed to eat.” He was able to laugh although it ended on a wheeze. “At my age, one cup of coffee is not going to make as much difference as all these years I’m carrying around.”

By the time they reached Cardinal van Hooven’s quarters, they were both cheered. “Who decided that we had to keep vigil for Zhuang Renxin until she arrives? Why did we agree to do it?” Cardinal Cadini asked in mock outrage.

“Cardinal Ochoa brought it up. You remember. You were there. You said it ought to be voluntary. Cardinal Gemme endorsed it. I suspect it was for the public relations as much as the spiritual exercise. Everyone else wanted something to do other than persuade government officials over half the world to assist us in bringing her here.” Cardinal van Hooven had a small domestic staff: his manservant was a Franciscan, his cook was not in Holy Orders. “I don’t believe in forcing someone to mix his dogmas,” he remarked as he opened the door for Cardinal Cadini.

“The dogma of haute cuisine,” said Cardinal Cadini as he kissed his fingertips. “A sublime devotion; and more heresy.”

It was a splendid day, and Cardinal van Hooven’s apartments had a fine view, looking away from Saint Paul’s over the extensive gardens. To make it better, his room had an octagonal oriole window where Cardinal van Hooven had placed an angled couch to take full advantage of the panorama beyond. “It makes up for the remoteness of the position. When I had the chance to take these apartments over last year, I could not say no.”

“Who could blame you, except for envy?” asked Cardinal Cadini, winking at his friend.

“These are supposed to be used for prayer,” Cardinal van Hooven observed as he sat down. He had loved these rooms from the first time he saw them, at night, thirty-two years ago. At that time the occupant was a feisty Irishman who had died just seventeen months ago. “I suppose the contemplation of Rome could be considered a form of religious exercise.”

“Are you making a practice of entertaining heresies?” Cardinal Cadini chuckled as he sat down. “It is quite wonderful out there.”

“Heresies would seem to be the order of the day. Tell me about Mendosa,” said Cardinal van Hooven. He had already summoned his Franciscan manservant with a small bell. “I want to know what headway he has been making with Magistrate Zhuang.”

“Is she our Magistrate Zhuang?” That seems to be the latest question,” said Cardinal Cadini, tilting his head back so he could look at the ceiling. “Oh, not that Cardinal Mendosa doubts, but if you saw the news last night—”

“The election of this Pope is a Chinese Communist plot?” Cardinal van Hooven finished. “Yes, I saw that. I wish I could discover who is behind that one. It has the appearance of plausibility.” He looked up as his manservant came in. “Brother Crispino, will you ask my cook to make us coffee and something light to eat?”

The Franciscan nodded and withdrew.

“Does he always have so much to say?” asked Cardinal Cadini, who could never understand Cardinal van Hooven’s preference for silent servants.

“He made a vow to speak only when necessary. He used to be very talkative, and that compromised two Brothers at his monastery. He found them doing something they ought not to, vowed he would reveal nothing of their activities—”

“Which he should not have done,” Cardinal Cadini interjected.

“Perhaps,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “But he forgot his vow, ended up gossiping about the Brothers, and they, in turn were asked to leave the Order. Poor Brother Crispino tried to kill himself—”

“It gets better and better,” said Cardinal Cadini.

“And his Abbot, whom I’ve known for decades, asked me if I’d take him on.” He leaned back. “Which I did.”

“To keep your hand in as a psychiatrist?” Cardinal Cadini suggested. “Well, if it saves him from mortal sin, why not?” He lowered his head. “I understand Cardinal Mendosa’s finally got a Chinese translation of the Bible and is trying to explain it to Zhuang. He says that she is not a very promising convert. She has argued with almost everything he has read with her. I think he enjoys the arguments, given the way he complains, but—”

“But you’re worried what it might mean when she actually gets here,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “You think she’ll end up in direct confrontations with the College of Cardinals and the Curia.”

“Yes,” said Cardinal Cadini simply. “I’m also afraid that she might expect that the rest of us will be like Cardinal Mendosa.”

Cardinal van Hooven laughed at once. “Should we all hurry out and purchase cowboy boots, do you think?” He grew more serious. “That might be awkward for all of us.”

“Mendosa says that he’s explained to her that all the Cardinals are very different, but how much she has believed is anyone’s guess.” Cardinal Cadini folded his stubby fingers. “I hope she has a strong will and a lot of good sense.”

“And I,” said Cardinal van Hooven, his magnified eyes seeming to grow larger as he spoke.

“It would not be correct for us to speak to her against the others. It would be a violation of our duty to the Church.” Cardinal Cadini said it as if it were a lesson. “But if she does not know how things are here, she might well.…”

“What ought we to do?” Cardinal van Hooven asked, one hand raised. “What can we say to her that will make her aware of her vulnerability? We must not compromise the College of Cardinals, but—”

“But we must not compromise the Pope, either,” said Cardinal Cadini. “And that slices it rather fine.”

“It is a very delicate matter,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “And you may be certain that the others will want to talk to her, to warn her against us. They have their zeal to provide a reason to act against the College of Cardinals. I have thought a great deal about how we must be alert to their manipulations, and do our best not to make the same error ourselves, and force the Church into a second schism.”

Brother Crispino came back with a tray which he put down on the end-table beside Cardinal van Hooven. He bowed, waited in silence for Cardinal van Hooven to bless him, then left.

“I think he would drive me distracted,” said Cardinal Cadini as he accepted a small cup of pungent, bitter espresso. “But if it doesn’t bother you, then I suppose—”

“From time to time it does bother me,” Cardinal van Hooven admitted. “But then I remind myself that Brother Crispino is not the only one of us who has to deal with doubts and conflict.”

“Um,” said Cardinal Cadini, and not because of the hot coffee. “How long do you intend to keep him around?”

“As long as it takes, I assume,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “You must try one of these pastries. They’re marvelous. The cook uses fresh cream when he makes the brandy-custard filling.”

“Sister Fabiola would pull my ears off if she knew I was eating this,” said Cardinal Cadini as he took one of the offered pastries. Cardinal van Hooven was right—it was marvelous.

* * *

Long experience in the rarefied world of diplomacy made it possible for Dame Leonie Purcell not to be outwardly astonished when she was summoned to the telephone shortly after six in the morning, with the information that the Premier of the People’s Republic of China wished to speak with her; he was on the line and holding.

“Tell Zuo Nangkao I will be with him directly,” she said as she climbed out of bed and tried to get her mind in gear. As she went down the hall she pulled on a silk robe over her cotton nightgown, glad that there were no video telephones in general operation between Hong Kong and Beijing.

A night secretary was waiting for her, speaking with the assistant to the Premier in that necessary and inane small-talk that buffered so much diplomacy. He looked up as Dame Leonie came through the door, his face showing the strain of the conversation, for although his Chinese was excellent, he was tired after a long night manning the telephones. After a few flowery excuses, he put the assistant on hold. “I don’t know what this is all about,” he said as Dame Leonie took her place behind the desk.

“Well, make sure the recorders are getting all this and that the scrambler is scrambling properly,” she said, speaking more brusquely than usual. “Thanks for handling this so far.”

“Pleasure,” said the secretary, getting up from his desk as he transferred the call to her telephone. He bowed slightly and left the room.

“This is Leonie Purcell,” she said, aware that she still sounded sleepy.

“Good morning, Madame Ambassadress,” said the assistant in Beijing in very good English. “I hope this call does not inconvenience you.”

“Certainly not. I am always pleased to speak with representatives of Premier Zuo,” she said, her Chinese impeccable. If there was a voice stress analyzer on the far end of the line, they would know this statement for the lie it was. “What am I to have the honor of doing for Premier Zuo?”

“He will explain it to you himself,” said the assistant, adding a few polite phrases before turning the call over to his superior.

“Dame Leonie,” said Zuo Nangkao. “I’m very sorry to disturb you at this early hour, but there is something of immediate importance we must discuss, and I have a very full calendar today. It would be impossible to have this discussion any later than now.”

She again declared that it was perfectly all right to get her up, and assured the Premier she was delighted to have this opportunity to further their mutual interests. She wanted to ask him what this was all about but knew that she would have to wait for him to tell her; prodding would be counterproductive.

“I am sure you are aware that we have arranged for Zhuang Renxin to obtain an exit visa in order to go to Rome,” he said with a directness that warned Dame Leonie this could be more difficult than she first assumed.

“Yes, Premier Zuo, I am aware of that,” she said, speaking with precision. She could hear the night secretary in the next room take a sharp breath.

“Yes, anyone heeding the news has become aware of this.” Zuo sounded a trifle impatient, but he suppressed this as he went on. “There are a number of reasons why it might be awkward for the Magistrate to depart from Beijing, not excluding the international press corps stationed here. It could be supposed that the government endorses Magistrate Zhuang’s new position, which it does not. I have been led to understand that it might be best if her departure were more of a private affair.”

“I can understand such reservations,” said Dame Leonie, wondering if his intent could be what she suspected it was. “The press have already had a carnival with her election, and they are determined to make the most of it now.”

“Exactly. You see why I am turning to you.” He infused his voice with as much warmth as he was capable of producing. “I am convinced I can rely on you to be discreet and efficient.”

“In what capacity, Premier?” asked Dame Leonie, wanting to scream.

“For a variety of reasons, I am of the opinion that Hong Kong would be a more satisfactory point of egress than Beijing. There is still a significant western presence in Hong Kong and the people are more familiar with the traditions of the West,” he said glibly. “If Magistrate Zhuang leaves for Rome from there, doubtless you can better protect her and grant her the security she will need.”

And you will not be faced with the possibility of having something go wrong. If anything happens, it will fall in my lap, thank you very much, thought Dame Leonie; she made herself sound pleased. “Why, how kind of you to have such regard for what this embassy can do, Premier Zuo.”

“It may well be a…what is the phrase?” prompted Zuo Nangkao.

“Feather in my cap?” Dame Leonie suggested, doing her best not to say it through her teeth. It was bad enough that he expected her to deal with so diplomatically touchy a figure as Zhuang Renxin; he wanted her to be obligated to him for it.

“That is the one. A very colorful metaphor, isn’t it?” He was jovial now. “I will give orders, since you are so willing, that instead of coming to Beijing, the Magistrate is to proceed with her escort to Hong Kong where she will be entrusted to your care and protection. I must admit that having so strong a British influence there has turned out better than I first anticipated it would.”

How improper it would be to swear at the Premier of the People’s Republic of China, Dame Leonie chided herself. Improper, but vastly satisfying. “I am sure the British government is in complete agreement, Premier Zuo.” She began to make a mental list of those she would have to contact immediately; it was very long. “When should we expect to receive Magistrate Zhuang?”

“Oh, nothing too inconvenient. I suppose we could say she will be there in six days.” The tone of his voice revealed he was smiling. “I know you will be prepared by then.”

“Of course,” said Dame Leonie. “In six days, then.” She wanted to shriek at him, to remind him of the security problems such a guest at the compound would create. Her temper flared, but her training kept her from lashing out. “I am pleased to be able to extend our hospitality to so remarkable a guest,” she could not resist adding. Then she made one last inquiry. “When you say her escort, do you include Cardinal Mendosa and his translator among them?”

Premier Zuo answered at once. “That is an excellent notion. How good of you to suggest it, Dame Leonie. I had not wanted to impose on you further but I think perhaps you are right, and Magistrate Zhuang would be best served having those two gentlemen accompany her for the entirety of her journey.”

It was the one thing in this telephone call that gave Dame Leonie a sense of real happiness. For once she did not need to summon up her social graces to give Zuo Nangkao the answer he wanted. “I’ll make sure the gentlemen are made welcome, Premier.”

“I am most sincerely indebted to you for your generosity,” said Premier Zuo hastily. “I will see that you receive a full written statement of our agreed terms and the arrangements with tomorrow’s courier.”

She realized he was about to terminate their conversation. “I will return a signed copy of it, if you wish, Premier.”

“It is deeply appreciated. I am certain you have been very wise, agreeing to act as the liaison for Magistrate Zhuang in her travels to the West. Accept my good wishes for a pleasant and productive morning, Dame Leonie.” With that he hung up, leaving Dame Leonie holding the receiver and puzzling over all she had just heard.

Chapter 16

About an hour before dawn Dominique, Cardinal Hetre woke from troubled sleep. He sat up in bed, propping his five feather pillows behind him. He did not want to summon assistance, for he knew what his staff thought about these episodes—it was the same thing they thought about his headaches. He had heard them discussing his health, complaining that the Cardinal fancied himself an invalid. The worst of the lot was Father Gamba from Toronto, who made no secret of his opinion.

Cardinal Hetre crossed himself and attempted to pray, but he could think of nothing to say to God Who had so bitterly disappointed him. After a short while, he began to address Mary, God’s Mother, perpetually Virgin. For the first time the phrase sounded ludicrous. He had never questioned dogma before, not seriously, but now the concept of a woman who had given birth to a child, no matter how miraculously conceived, afterwards remaining perpetually virgin struck him as absurd. No woman could make such a claim. Unless the child was born by caesarean section, which was not the case. He could not imagine that God would take the time to rebuild Mary’s hymen, or that Jesus had found a way to work around it on the way out.

“Blasphemy,” he whispered. “Forgive me, forgive me.” He joined his hands, rocking back and forth in his bed, horrified at the things that came unbidden to his thoughts.

At last, in order to do something other than continue to fret, he got up, moving as quietly as he could so that he would not wake the members of his staff who shared his quarters. He suspected that at least one of them was up, moving about, keeping an eye on him. They were all waiting for him to go to pieces; he had come to that realization in the last few days. He went through his dressing room into his study, and there sat down at his desk. As he caught his lower lip in his teeth, he stared at the telephone and pretended he could not remember the number Mister Greene had give him. Truth was, it was etched in his mind. Nothing, not sleep, not prayer, not thundering headaches could expunge it. The man had told him to call at any time, he thought grimly, and could not complain.

Finally he reached for the receiver, reminding himself that Mister Greene had started their dealings, not he, and that he was responding to an offer, not creating a scandal and seeking allies to mitigate his involvement.

To Cardinal Hetre’s amazement, Greene himself answered on the fourth ring. He did not sound sleepy or grouchy. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mister Greene. This is Cardinal Hetre.” He kept his voice low, hoping he would not have to explain why he was doing it.

“Yes; I recognize you. I gather this means you have considered what we discussed. What do you want to tell me, Your Eminence?” He was cordially to-the-point. “Have you reached a decision?”

Cardinal Hetre swallowed hard. He had prayed for guidance, and had been given none. If God had any direction, He had not shown Cardinal Hetre the way; the Cardinal had come to the conclusion that he was free to do as he thought best. “Yes, I have. Not without difficulty. I am still not wholly convinced that your notion…I think your plan…I think your plan has much to recommend it, but I question its extremity. Were it not so great an issue, I would not want to be part of such a scheme. However for the preservation of the Papacy, we must do something to be rid of this Chinese woman.”

“And quickly. The rumor is that she will arrive in Rome within the week,” said Greene as if he had no particular interests in her plans.

“We have been given no official information.” He could not keep the resentment from his voice; it had been announced the evening before that Zhuang Renxin’s actual arrival time and location were to be kept secret, in order to avoid any leaks to the press, or those seeking to create an incident. At least, thought Cardinal Hetre darkly, that was the excuse they were all given. He was convinced that it was another example of Cardinal Mendosa’s trickery. “But I suppose it is correct security.”

“And you have made up your mind?” Greene asked.

“Yes,” said Cardinal Hetre, and took a great deal of strength from that simple word. “Yes. I have decided that although I am not used to making common cause with Protestants, in this instance it is the wisest course. Something must be done, and Protestants are Christians.” He looked up from the telephone, then recognized a distant bell. No one had found him yet.

“So you will help us to discredit her.” It was no longer a question.

Cardinal Hetre nodded, saying, “What else can I do? If I remain apathetic like so many of the other Cardinals, she will be here. A few of them are saying that the writing of her name twice removes all doubt and shows that God has taken a hand in our affairs. But that to me is where I have the gravest reservations, for if God were to make Himself known, would not a few of us have voted for someone else? It is the unanimity that nags me. I wrote her name twice, and I know in my soul I did not intend to, and that I do not want her here. That, to me, is not the work of the Holy Spirit, but something more diabolical.” His voice had risen and he made himself speak more softly. “There is too much to be lost to permit her to become Pope.”

“You believe she will be in Rome in a week,” said Greene when Cardinal Hetre’s outburst ended. “That gives me very little time to make arrangements, if you will let me say so.” He paused. “I want to consider what we do next very carefully. If we cannot stop her by public pressure while she is still in China, we must be willing to stop her when she arrives, by more explicit means.” Again he was silent for two heartbeats. “And if that cannot be done, we must seek a more complete solution.”

The first tweak of a new headache struck. “What do you mean by that? What means are more complete—”

Greene did not permit Cardinal Hetre to continue. “If she comes to Rome, it is her death warrant. How can we permit her to reign even one hour as Pope? That alone would be sufficient to shake the Christian world to its roots. She leaves us no other choice. She will be stopped.” He went on in a tone that purred with deadly intent. “You can see how we must be prepared for such a contingency.”

“Yes,” said Cardinal Hetre distantly, feeling that a chasm had opened at his feet. “I understand. I suppose it’s true. And Heaven knows that Popes have died for other reasons than old age before now.” He shuddered at the enormity of what they were saying. “But surely you know that in my position I cannot support such actions openly, though I see the need for them. No doubt if she cannot be kept away from Rome, the time may come when we have no choice but to be rid of her. She ought to have told Mendosa no, as so many of us expected her to do. If only she had done that. How can we oppose the Pope?”

“You have before,” Greene said flatly.

Cardinal Hetre sputtered. “But…b ut then he was one of us. Another Cardinal who was elevated, not this…this interloper.”

Greene chuckled as if Cardinal Hetre’s tribulation amused him. “Let me know when she is supposed to arrive, and where. My assistant will take a message. I will be busy between now and then.”

Cardinal Hetre heard Greene put down the receiver; he was shocked that Greene had not waited for his blessing.

* * *

Dame Leonie herself was in the limousine that met the twenty-passenger jet as it touched down in Hong Kong. She was accompanied by equal numbers of Chinese and British guards, all in dress uniforms, all standing beside their motorcycles. Beyond the end of the runway two riot-wagons waited, in case there was trouble. Police were stationed at various places around the airport, and two marksmen had been given strategic posts which covered the limousine and the section of runway where the jet would park. They were, Dame Leonie thought fatalistically, as ready as possible.

Stairs were rolled to the plane’s flank, the door opened, a steward stepping back as soon as the task was done. The guards all came to attention. There was no music because none could be agreed upon. Given the acrimony of the discussion, Dame Leonie had wanted to recommend the Dies Irae as the most appropriate.

Willie Foot was the first of the three passengers to step out of the plane. He looked down and called out, “All this for me?”

Dame Leonie choked back a laugh but could not conceal her smile. She knew better than to wave.

Behind him came Zhuang Renxin, her expression puzzled as she took in the military escort and the police. She glanced over her shoulder to the rangy Texan behind her, remarking that she did not like so much attention.

“You might as well get used to it. It is given in respect,” he told her in his faltering Chinese, adding in English to Willie, “How the hell do you say tribute?”

Willie supplied the word and continued to Magistrate Zhuang, “You’d better get used to it, Zhuang. This is just the beginning, and not a very impressive one. There will be tens of thousands of people waiting for you in Rome.”

“Which is why we are going to land in Milan,” said Mendosa, who had caught the drift of what Willie said. In the last two weeks his Chinese had improved significantly, though it was not adequate enough for talking with Zhuang unassisted.

“Who are they?” asked Zhuang Renxin in English. Her proficiency in English was better than Mendosa’s in Chinese now.

“Well, the woman in the long automobile is the British Ambassadress to Hong Kong,” said Willie with a touch of pride. “The Chinese soldiers you know. The ones in the fancy uniforms are British. They’ll accompany us to the embassy compound.” He started down the stairs behind Zhuang, taking care not to move too quickly. “Welcome to Hong Kong, Worthy Magistrate,” he said as she stepped onto the runway.

“I have heard much of this place,” said Magistrate Zhuang as he joined her. She had worn the same clothes she usually donned for presiding at her duties, but as she looked at Dame Leonie in her Chanel suit, she felt shabby, which was a new sensation for her. Though she had seen very fashionable clothes on television, she had never supposed people actually wore such garments except as costumes. At once she upbraided herself for these unworthy emotions. Dame Leonie had come by those clothes at the expense of others, she told herself inwardly. For the British Ambassadress to wear such a suit, many workers had to be exploited. That reflection made it more appropriate to bow respectfully to Dame Leonie as she approached.

Dame Leonie returned the bow and said to Zhuang Renxin in flawless Chinese, “It is great honor to meet you and welcome you to this city, Your Holiness.”

“That foolish title again,” scoffed Zhuang as she met Dame Leonie’s eyes. Such pretty eyes, she thought, and discovered that she could not dislike the Englishwoman no matter how much she thought she would.

“Get used to this, too, Worthy Magistrate,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he came up behind her. “Good to see you again, Dame Leonie,” he added, holding out his hand to her.

Dame Leonie saved her best smile for Willie. “It’s good to have you back.” She then presented the leader of the Chinese and then the leader of the British escort to Magistrate Zhuang, turning at last to the stretch limousine. “Please join me, won’t you? I have ordered a bottle of champagne for us on the drive back to the embassy.” Ordinarily she would have stood aside for Zhuang Renxin to enter the vehicle first, but she could see that the Magistrate was out of her depth, and so climbed in, leaving the best place empty.

Zhuang Renxin entered carefully, looking at the plush seats with wonder and distaste. “I have never been in such an automobile.”

“Not many people have,” said Willie in English, getting in behind her. He went on in Chinese, knowing both women would understand him. “I love them, myself. I sit here in comfort while the chauffeur has to deal with all the traffic. Much the best way to travel. That’s probably why all those old aristocrats were so dependent on their coachmen.” He sat down directly across from Dame Leonie and switched back to English. “How’ s it been here?”

“Well, there’ve been reporters all over the place, but nothing we haven’t been able to handle. There’s also been the most wild speculation in the press about Magistrate Zhuang. The most recent is a rumor that says she is an agent planted by Chinese intelligence for the purpose of destroying the credibility of the Church, or ruining it. That Canadian Cardinal—Het re?—he’ s been endorsing the theory.” Dame Leonie shook her head. “The story is like something out of a spy novel—hypnoti c suggestions to the whole College of Cardinals, drugs in the food, all part of a scheme to make sure that the wealth of the Church falls into godless hands.”

“Sounds quite enchanting,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he took his place beside Willie. He was growing tired of sitting down. “How good to know the press and Cardinal Hetre are keeping busy.” He said it very straight-faced, and Dame Leonie stared at him.

“You can’t be serious, Eminence,” she protested.

“He isn’t,” Willie assured her. “It’s part of Texas humor. He wants to see how far he can pull your leg.”

The limousine was moving at last, going slowly toward the side gate, the two sets of guards riding with it, British on the right, Chinese on the left.

At the gate they were met by two army jeeps and six police cars to augment the motorcycles. The cop cars led and the jeeps brought up the rear; it had been arranged that the whole entourage would travel at a strict twenty miles an hour through cleared streets.

“They are making a great deal of fuss,” said Magistrate Zhuang as the limousine made its way toward Juilong—which the British still called Kowloon—and the ferry to Hong Kong.

“We will travel on a private ferry,” said Dame Leonie. “The police here are afraid there could be trouble. There have been demonstrators here from Macao most of the week.”

“Any riots?” asked Willie, first in Chinese and then in English for Cardinal Mendosa’s benefit. “And how bad?”

“Only one that was serious. There were a couple hundred people arrested. The police are being very careful. World opinion has been volatile. It’s a question of religion, and that makes things touchier than usual.” She indicated the small array of glasses. “The champagne bucket is in the well there. It’s chilled enough, I think. If you’d be kind enough to open it, Willie?”

As Willie reached for the bottle in its nest of ice, he asked Magistrate Zhuang if she had ever tasted champagne.

“I have had it once,” said Zhuang Renxin after brief reflection. “It was quite warm.”

“It’s supposed to be cold,” said Willie, setting to work on the cork.

Cardinal Mendosa had been looking out the tinted windows. “What else is going on that we ought to know about, Dame Leonie?”

She shifted her gaze toward him. “What do you mean, Eminence?”

“Well,” drawled the Cardinal, “unless we’ve started the millennium, and the Kingdom of God is at hand, I don’t think the College of Cardinals is taking this lying down. I don’t think much of anyone is.” He rubbed his chin, though he had shaved only three hours ago and there was very little to feel. “I can’t get it out of my head that they’re up to something. Cardinal Jung’s been working on his first Papal Bull for the last year—you can’t tell me he’s changed his tune, not that old juggernaut. Cardinal Bakony’s been flapping around about the change of government, how now he’s going to have a Pope who’ll make some part of the Hungarian people break out in a cold sweat. I haven’t heard that much from Cardinal Cadini, we’ve only had short phone calls, but what little he says bothers me. But I get worried about things. I know those guys. They’re all spooked because of how Zhuang’s election happened, but they aren’t about to let her get in their way. I hear Vince Walgren is in Central America, doing something about displaced persons and no doubt stirring up trouble.” He regarded Dame Leonie. “So. What can you tell me?” He touched the two letters nestled in his pocket, accounts of the beginning and end of his journey, addressed to a box in Moscow. He hated the very idea of mailing them and knew that he must, now that he was out of the internal Chinese mail system.

“I can’t tell you very much, Eminence,” said Dame Leonie just as Willie popped the champagne cork and reached for a glass to catch the exuberant wine. He gave the first glass to Magistrate Zhuang.

“Do what you can. And Willie, make sure you tell Zhuang everything. I don’t want her missing any of this.” He regarded Dame Leonie with interest. “Please. Tell me.”

She lifted her shoulder. “Well, they’ve been traveling a lot, I understand. Cardinal Lepescu is back in Romania for a week, Cardinal Stevenson is in Wellington. Cardinal Fiorivi is meeting with half a dozen of the Italian Cardinals somewhere around Lake Como. The French are doing something with the Dutch and the Belgians. I don’t know much about the others. Cardinal Llanos is away from Rome right now. Supposedly he is going through all the South American countries to get some impression of the people’s response to Magistrate Zhuang’s elevation—” She took the glass Willie handed to her. “To tell you the truth, Eminence, I haven’t made a point of keeping up. We’ve had enough going on here to keep me busy.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Sorry I have to add to the load. But after three weeks plus, I’m antsy about going back unprepared. I’ll have to make a couple of calls, if you’ll permit it?”

“I expected it,” said Dame Leonie. She lifted her glass as Willie handed one to Cardinal Mendosa and kept the last for himself. “To our guest, Her Holiness, Pope—”

“That doesn’t work in Latin,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “But Mater or Mama doesn’t do it, does it?”

“Shut up, Charles,” said Willie genially. “Pope Renxin I. And undoubtedly only.” He toasted her and took a sip of his champagne.

“No, Zhuang,” said Cardinal Mendosa, reaching out to stop her sharing their first sip. “No, that is not done. You let us have the first sip and then you may drink. It’s bad luck to drink your own toast.” His warning was about half English and half Chinese. Willie sorted it out for Magistrate Zhuang.

“How odd a custom,” she said when Willie was done. “But I will honor it.” She held her glass until she was certain it was correct to drink. “It is very fizzy,” she commented after her drink. “And it is much better cold.”

Cardinal Mendosa lowered his glass. “That’s another thing. The name. You are not going to be Pope Renxin. That’s against custom as well. The Pope selects another name for his…her reign. It’s not permitted to keep your own. Usually the name is chosen to indicate something of the nature of how the Pope regards his or her purpose in office. Some of them select the names of important saints, and some the names of illustrious Popes before them. The names are supposed to be religious in intent.”

“That seems foolish to me, but much of what you have told me about the Church seems foolish.” She sipped her wine.

“There haven’t been any female Popes before—in spite of the legend of Pope Joan. I told you about her already—and therefore you can’t really name yourself after any of them. But there’re some dandy female saints.” He had a bit more champagne, thinking that he was probably too tired for this to be wise. Jet lag was waiting for him, here in Hong Kong and later in Italy.

“It would not be wise to call myself Joan?” Magistrate Zhuang inquired with feigned innocence. She had come to appreciate Mendosa’s sense of humor and could sometimes achieve it herself. “Joan II?”

“Zhuang Renxin,” said Cardinal Mendosa with the flicker of a smile, “you are a rascal. How would you number your reign, since Pope Joan I didn’t exist? You’ll have the fox among the chickens for sure if you pull a stunt like that. They’re riled up already. Better choose something a mite less incendiary. We can talk about it later, if you want to. I got a few ideas you can consider, if you like.” He listened to Willie and Dame Leonie translate for him, pleased they liked his analogy of Cardinals as chickens. “Another thing to keep in mind, though, whatever name you choose, is you got to be careful. They’re all going to be looking for something to criticize. Not only the Cardinals, but Catholics everywhere, and everyone else, for that matter.”

“But that is true already; I have been criticized since I was elected, before I knew anything of it,” said Magistrate Zhuang simply, looking from Willie to Dame Leonie to Cardinal Mendosa. “Who I am is subject to criticism. We are all aware of that.”

“Then all the more reason to choose the right name,” said Cardinal Mendosa, and gave her a quirky smile.

They were almost at the waterfront now, and there were traffic cops at every intersection as well as the escort for the limousine. The outline of loading cranes, like skeletons of extinct reptiles, loomed over the docks and quays.

“We’ll be on the ferry shortly. We’ll lose part of our escort then. The jeeps are going to stay behind. There’ll be two more waiting for us on the other side, to take the place of those we leave here.” Dame Leonie permitted Willie to refill her glass. “The compound has doubled its guard for the length of your stay, Your Holiness.”

“For the time being, I am still a Magistrate,” said Zhuang, taking care with the unfamiliar wine, so unlike the heady, grassy rice wine she occasionally drank in Hongya. She could not rid herself of the sense that it was all an illusion, one which would fade shortly and she would be back in her own town, watching the millet grow and presiding in the local court, where she belonged. This destiny which had overtaken her was perplexing; she had no sense of where it was leading her, or why it had come to her at all.

“If that is what you prefer,” said Dame Leonie, a bit surprised at this announcement.

“It is. I would prefer to keep it that way always, but apparently that is not possible.” There was a moment of silence when the muffled sounds of the motorcycles beside the limousine became louder to them, an ominous snarl. “But I do not know how to address you,” Zhuang went on to Dame Leonie. “What do I say that is correct?”

“As they do. Call me Dame Leonie. I am Dame Leonie Purcell. Leonie is my personal name.” She found herself quiet taken with this serious Chinese woman.

“Then the title is for—” Zhuang began, only to have Willie interrupt in order to explain.

“Her family name, or rather her husband’s family name is Purcell, as your family name is Zhuang. Her title is Dame, as yours is Magistrate, for a little while longer.”

“But a title and a personal name together.” protested Magistrate Zhuang.

“It happens that way for certain titles in England,” said Dame Leonie. “Men who have the title Sir are called by their personal names. Women who have the title Dame are called by their personal names.”

“And Popes?” asked Zhuang pointed. “They are called by a personal name that is not theirs?”

“Something like that,” said Cardinal Mendosa, who had been able to follow the general thrust of the conversation. “In the West, it is the same with kings, too. They are known by their personal names. Their names and a number, according to the kingdom, not the king’s own family.”

“It is very peculiar,” said Zhuang with a frown.

They had reached the entrance to the ferry slip. Behind them two long lines of cars waited. Ahead, there was a boat about a third the size of what the slip could accommodate, maneuvering into position to take the limousine and its escort aboard. On its side was the logo of a major international corporation, but the angle of approach made it impossible to discern it clearly.

“We’ll be on our way directly, Your Holiness,” said Dame Leonie.

Zhuang Renxin turned pleading eyes on Cardinal Mendosa. “Is there no way to stop calling me—” She gestured.

Cardinal Mendosa stretched out as much as the limousine would allow. “Well, after your coronation, you could promulgate a Bull about it, but that’s not going to make things any easier with the Cardinals. They’ll scream like stuck pigs.” He grinned impulsively. “It’s been the title for a very long time, even in Chinese terms. People are used to it. They like it. Most of the Cardinals imagine having that title for themselves.”

“And you, Eminence?” Dame Leonie inquired politely.

“I?” Cardinal Mendosa countered, doing his best to answer without revealing the existence or extent of his visions. “You mean, did I ever seek to be Pope? No. Not the way you’re implying. When I first became a priest, I think I wondered what I would do if I had the chance, but the higher I rose in the Church, the less I sought that office. Or any office beyond what I have.” How could he tell them that he had known he would be one of the Princes of the Church—had known since he was nineteen years old—and would never rise higher? How could he tell them that the advancement of his visions that he had sought was almost a reality, and that he was content? “I’m a reasonable man, in my way, Dame Leonie. I figure the odds. Not many of us get to be Pope, do we? It’s kind of futile to hanker after it.”

Zhuang Renxin had been listening to Willie’s running translation; when Cardinal Mendosa finished speaking, she said, “Mendosa, I will gladly give it all to you.” She said it with a trace of laughter, but she meant every word, for she felt herself on the edge of a precipice, the ground crumbling at her feet. She was beginning to realize the vastness of the work before her, and she had much to do not to draw back.

The limousine moved slowly onto the ferry, the escort coming behind it. The boat rocked as the cars and motorcycles were jockeyed into position.

“Thanks, Worthy Magistrate; I appreciate it,” said Cardinal Mendosa with a rueful grin. “But the Papacy isn’t something you can give away, not in recent history anyway. If they give it to you, you’re stuck with it. They gave it to you twice. We’re all stuck.”

“Does that anger you?” asked Dame Leonie, not knowing how to interpret the Cardinal’s attitude which seemed at once mildly sarcastic and elated. “Or dismay you?”

“That I’m not Pope? Good God, no!” This outburst was accompanied by a blast from the ferry’s horn. He downed the last of his champagne as the boat began to slide away from the shore.

* * *

A fourth report was delivered to his apartment about mid-afternoon. Dmitri Karodin took the thick file with a routine and unthinking phrase of thanks, and closed the door abruptly. He stood in the entryway, thumbing through the pages, a faint smile on his lips. So many changes, and so sudden. Still reading, he ambled into his office, a room lined with tall, filled bookcases, with high windows at the north end of the room that overlooked a cemetery where tulips were blooming between the graves. Dmitri found it a comforting place to work.

The press, he saw with satisfaction, had stirred up a furor over the news that Magistrate Zhuang Renxin had apparently left China two days before they had been told she would be allowed to go. He chuckled. Premier Zuo was not idiot enough to play directly into the hands of the international newsmedia, that much was clear. There were any number of stories floating about of how she left Hongya, and with whom. So far as Dmitri Karodin could tell, only three were close to accurate: Soir-Paris had guessed that Magistrate Zhuang had flown out of China and was not under large escort. La Stampa had not been right about her transportation but was correct in assuming she would depart for Rome from Hong Kong. In Argentina Porque had called Magistrate Zhuang’s port of departure but had pictured the occasion on a much grander scale.

He had that morning received the most recent letter from Cardinal Mendosa and read it over with interest and a strange sense of pleasure. In spite of their obvious differences, Karodin was coming to like the Texan. He found two paragraphs particularly interesting.

Aside from her dislike of all the attention she has been receiving. Magistrate Zhuang has not experienced any difficulty in traveling, apart from a dislike of the food we are being served. We will arrive in Hong Kong within the hour and we have been promised that there will be as small a reception for her as is possible and prudent. Some attention cannot be avoided entirely, for security reasons if none other. The police force in Hong Kong, as well as the Chinese and British Army contingents there have said they cannot permit her to enter the city without protection.

I understand that Dame Leonie Purcell has made the arrangements for us and has extended the hospitality of her embassy to us. It may not be diplomatically correct, but I have accepted her offer. Considering how much consternation Magistrate Zhuang has created so far, I have decided that the British embassy is preferable to the Italian one, since Britain is not a largely Roman Catholic country. I have ruled out the American embassy because of the contingent of journalists who have access to the American embassy in Hong Kong. I do not want to be fending off press at all hours of the day and night.

While his housekeeper brought him a glass of strong, sweet tea, Dmitri Karodin leaned back in his chair, going over in his mind the most recent additions to his file on Magistrate Zhuang. He had already decided that he would have to find out where the rumor of Zhuang’s being an agent of the Communist Party came from, and who was behind the insistence that she was under orders to destroy the Church for ideological reasons. Not that he ruled out such a possibility, he added to himself as he made a few notes on the pad he kept on his desk. Premier Zuo Nangkao was not one to neglect such an opportunity, though Dmitri knew that Zuo had played no part in Magistrate Zhuang’s election. Yet Dmitri was not surprised that there would be rumors about what the Chinese government expected to achieve through Magistrate Zhuang’s unexpected advancement, or that some would assume there had been subtle machinations on the part of Chinese intelligence to obtain the Throne of Saint Peter for her. However, the fabulous notion of drugs and subliminal manipulation of the entire College of Cardinals was too preposterous for him to consider as anything more than entertainment.

But the rumor—the specific rumor—had come from somewhere, he knew. And wherever it was, there Magistrate Zhuang had implacable enemies. He finished his tea and made a few phone calls, none of them to Moscow.

* * *

Drizzle turned the entire city of Milan a dark, surly grey. Late spring often went nasty in the north of Italy; the small party from Rome waited in the security VIP lounge of the airport, peering out at the weather and waiting for the announcement that the plane from Hong Kong via Delhi had arrived at last.

“I can understand why Barbarossa sacked this city twice,” said Vitale, Cardinal Cadini when the lounge hostess had brought them all brandy with coffee and left them alone. “It made him gloomy.”

“It became gloomy after he sacked it,” said Cardinal Pingari, thinking that the lounge was a little stuffy. He liked the rain and if he were not in his most elegant business suit, he would have taken half an hour to walk alone in it.

Cardinal van Hooven set his brandy aside. “It is better this than smog.”

All five of the Cardinals in the lounge agreed.

“Do you think this new Pope will take an interest in smog? Now that environmental abuse is listed as a sin, she might insist that something be done,” Cardinal Gemme tried to laugh, and showed instead a nervousness like stage fright. His usual confidence was absent today, and instead he fussed. “The Chinese have not been very concerned with the environment until Zuo became Premier.”

“There’s no use anticipating. We’ll have to wait until she arrives to find out,” said Cardinal van Hooven. He was comfortable in his chair and showed no inclination to get up and pace, as Cardinal Gemme was doing, or to watch impatiently as the wall clock marked off an eternity of seconds, as Cardinal Ochoa did, or to stare out at the rain and lowering clouds as if they were an assembly of devils, as Cardinal Shumwoe did. If he had learned one thing in his years of psychiatric practice it was to wait without expectation, so that he would not be shocked, whatever happened. In his own apartments he might have lit a pipe; but here, he realized that would only serve to provoke the others.

“You said Cardinal Mendosa called you from Delhi,” said Cardinal Gemme, addressing Cardinal Cadini. “What did he have to say?”

“That the trip was bouncy and the food was bad and the movie boring, but that the airline staff was being pleasant,” said Cardinal Cadini with extreme calm. “What else could he say in the middle of a busy airport? There might have been newsmen around, and he didn’t want to advertise their presence.”

“There is a newsman around all the time,” complained Cardinal Gemme, with a look to the others for support. “His translator is a journalist.”

“And so far he has sent nothing to the papers, or the networks,” Cardinal Cadini said gently. “He gave Cardinal Mendosa his word and he has honored it.”

“What did he have to say about the woman?” asked Cardinal Pingari, his question sounding very loud.

“He said that she was tired. They’ll probably be suffering from jet lag when they arrive. They’ll want nothing more than a light meal and a good night’s rest,” said Cardinal Cadini, hoping that so mundane a consideration as jet lag would keep the Cardinals from demanding the entire attention of the newcomer.

“There is a press conference scheduled for tomorrow at noon,” said Cardinal Gemme. “In Rome.”

“And we will be certain to have something for the press,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “We need not produce Zhuang for them. In fact, it might be best if we wait until we have the opportunity to speak with her ourselves before we ask her to deal with the press. We need only tell them that she has arrived safely and that plans are underway for her coronation.” He saw Cardinal Pingari and Cardinal Ochoa wince at the last word; he went on, “It will be what they expect, yet in these times, it will serve our purpose to give them what they expect.”

“Quite true,” said Cardinal Cadini with enthusiasm. “We really ought to behave as if this were the most normal election in the history of the Church, to keep them from making all those outrageous claims we keep seeing in headlines. Have you followed the most recent speculations? They’re like the story in a bad movie. Hypnotic suggestions! Communists in the kitchen! Bugs in the Sistine Chapel! As if this lot could be uniformly hoodwinked without difficulty.”

The others nodded endorsement of his indignation.

“At home,” said Cardinal Shumwoe in his deep, entrancing voice, “people are saying that a spell has been put on the Church, by older gods who are not pleased to have an upstart like Jesus Christ taking the place of the old ones. Those old gods are bloody. If they demand revenge, it is taken in pain and lives. They are false gods, but many are deceived by these tales of their power.” He crossed himself. “I have been warned by many of my clergy that we will lose converts because of that woman.”

“If she is the choice of the Holy Spirit, they will return, and bring many more with them,” said Cardinal van Hooven tranquilly.

Cardinal Gemme rounded on him, his hands tightening to fists. “How can you sit there, pretending that nothing important is happening?”

“It has not happened yet, if you are speaking of Zhuang’s arrival. If you mean her election, that was weeks and weeks ago. It is no longer news to alarm me.” He decided to have a little more brandy. “For the sake of Our Lord, Marc-Luc, spare yourself. You will need all that energy later. There is nothing to be gained squandering it now.”

Cardinal Gemme turned away abruptly, almost overturning Cardinal Cadini’s snifter of brandy. “You all think this going to go away, don’t you? You assume that we’ll be able to carry on as usual, that she’ll be so baffled and confused that she will not be able to do anything but what we tell her to do.” He came close to pounding his fist against the wall in frustration. “Don’t be blind! She could make many changes, serious changes. She is about to become Pope! And we don’t know anything about her. Hasn’t it penetrated your brains yet? She will have the authority to command the Church. If that doesn’t frighten you, if you are not apprehensive at least, about what she could so, then you are worse than fools.”

Cardinal Cadini applauded lightly. “Very convincing, Cardinal Gemme.” He was about to continue when an announcement, first in Italian, then in English, then in German, informed them of the arrival of a flight from Copenhagen.

All the Cardinals visibly relaxed.

“I find your attitude offensive,” said Cardinal Gemme to Cardinal Cadini.

“I might say the same of you, Cardinal Gemme,” Cardinal Cadini replied. “It is moments like this when I wonder if we are truly on the same side.”

“Side! How can you allow something so petty as side to cloud your judgment?” Cardinal Gemme moved past Cardinal Cadini, but the lounge did not give him much room for dramatic effect. He had to be satisfied with a short turn and a resumption of his pacing.

“The whole problem is that each of us has a side,” said Cardinal Cadini as if he were unaware of the slight Cardinal Gemme had offered him. “And that woman is going to have to contend with all of them. Some of us have hopes that her insights will help us find new ways to teach our old lesson. Others would rather stick with old methods, viable or not.”

“He’s not a student of yours, Cardinal Cadini,” said Cardinal Pingari, doing his best to sound more confident than he felt. “None of us needs a lecture from you.”

“Your point is taken, Eminence,” said Cardinal Cadini, shifting in his seat with with a serene smile. He directed his attention to the shiny runways.

“How much longer, do you think?” asked Cardinal Ochoa, with a glance at his watch. “They were supposed to land twenty minutes ago.”

“This airport is always behind,” complained Cardinal Gemme. “I have missed more connections here than anywhere but Frankfort.”

“We haven’t been told there is a delay,” said Cardinal van Hooven, “so we must assume that they are part of the planes scheduled to land. Be patient if you can. Pray for patience.” He had a little more of the brandy. “This is quite good. You should try some.”

“No, thank you,” said Cardinal Ochoa. He looked uncomfortable in his secular clothes although he was dressed with expensive, restrained good taste. “If only they would land.”

Another two planes descended, then taxied to other parking spots, waiting for the airport ferries to come and claim their passengers, bound for other gates than the one where the Cardinals waited.

Then a plane came in bearing the emblem of China/World Airlines, the most recent of the People’s Republic’s ventures into tourism. No announcement on the public address system greeted its arrival.

Cardinal Cadini watched it eagerly. “They’ re supposed to let her off first. That’s what the police want, so they can give her proper protection.” He nodded toward the police cars waiting near the runways a quarter of a mile from the terminal. “The airport staff said they would take her off the plane very near here.”

“How can you be sure this is the plane they’re on?” Cardinal Gemme demanded, anxious and annoyed at once.

“Well, the next China/World flight isn’t due until nine this evening. So it would appear that this is our plane.” Cardinal Cadini was staring out the window now, close enough to the glass that his breath left ghosts on the pane.

Cardinal Gemme came to his side. “There’s no announcement.”

“They won’t make one until after Zhuang and Cardinal Mendosa leave the plane. And Willie Foot, too, for that matter.” Cardinal Cadini made no attempt to disguise the smile that spread over his features. “We’ll be able to watch them from here.”

Cardinal van Hooven rose to his feet and came to the window. “What does she look like?” He scolded himself silently for anticipating the woman, but could not deny his curiosity.

“Chinese,” said Cardinal Cadini comprehensively. “Wait. It won’t be long now.”

The plane reached the end of the runway now and was turning to come back to the terminal. It was accompanied by ten police cars, a whale in a school of minnows.

Finally the plane stopped and steps were rolled out to it.

“I want to watch,” said Cardinal Shumwoe as he came to the window with the others.

As the door swung open, Cardinal Mendosa stepped out into the rain. He lifted his arms and opened an umbrella with a broken vane, so that one side flopped toward his ear. Even at this distance, his fellow-Cardinals could see he was grinning.

“How does he look?” asked Cardinal Cadini, wishing he had his other pair of glasses with him.

“He looks like Charles, Cardinal Mendosa,” said Cardinal Gemme in disgust. “He’s probably wearing his cowboy boots.”

Next came Willie Foot to stand beside the Cardinal, disdaining the shelter of the umbrella with British unconcern.

The third figure held the rapt attention of the six Cardinals in the VIP lounge: she was shadowed by the umbrella, and dwarfed by the two men who flanked her; she did not seem very distinguished. Her hair was dark, but that was expected. Before she started down the steps she addressed a remark to Cardinal Mendosa which made him laugh. She stood straight and walked without hesitation, her shoulders square, her head carried well. Her clothes were nondescript, but she did not behave as if this troubled her.

“Habemus Papam,” said Cardinal Cadini softly as Magistrate Zhuang stepped onto Italian ground to be lost to sight amid the police cars. “Or whatever the feminine of Pope may be.”

Part II:

ELEVATION

Chapter 17

It was impossible to reach the Vatican by road. Tens of thousands of Catholics, non-Catholics, anti-Catholics, the crazed and the curious had turned out to catch a glimpse of the woman from China. Several vocal minorities shouted slogans against the new Pope, calling her Antichrist and Whore of Babylon, Communist and Subversive. A few smaller, more respectful groups staged demonstrations of support, a contingent of nuns going so far as to celebrate a Mass at the base of Castel’ Sant’ Angelo; the break-away group that claimed the right of succession to the Throne of Saint Peter for themselves sang the Requiem. Others recited prayers in Latin and admonished sincere Catholics to turn away from revisionist policies and irreligious practices which had made the Church a puppet in godless hands.

Thieves of all sorts took advantage of this marvelous opportunity. The newsmedia gobbled it all and asked for more. Not everyone approved of this exploitation, but those who objected were ignored or shouted down. Worshippers and zealots blocked the Sant’ Angelo bridge and the police barricaded the Vittorio Emanuele II bridge in a desperate attempt to reduce the number of people crowding onto the north-west bank of the Tevere; they were not very successful and the crush grew worse.

Rafaele, Cardinal Tondocello, dressed as casually as his rank and the gravity of the occasion would allow stood to greet the three men from Interpol as his Jesuit secretary left them. “Welcome, gentlemen. Come in. Come in. I’m sorry for all this…inconvenience,” he said, and held out his ring to them, sketching a blessing to them as they knelt. He was very tired and the commotion around him made him testy. “Please. Sit down.”

The two Frenchmen complied at once; the Italian remained standing until the Cardinal himself was seated. The senior officer, a Commander Alphonse Bouleau from Nantes, presented his credentials. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Your Eminence. I’m sorry we come on such an unpleasant errand. We appreciate your cooperation, at what must be a very difficult time. Still, we might have expected worse, all things considered.” He paused, giving Cardinal Tondocello the opportunity to speak. When the Cardinal remained silent, Commander Bouleau continued, “Inspectors Cervi and Fleche and I have been asked by the Italian government and the European Economic Community Police Agency to assist you, for the protection of Rome. Of course, the Vatican need not accept our aid, but.…” He made a gesture to imply the rest.

“Yes,” said Cardinal Tondocello. He sighed, thinking that tomorrow he would have to have dialysis again, and would feel better afterward. “It would probably be best if we work together.”

“We know you have your own security people.… Interpol has a long history of good relations with your security. We’ve already been in contact with them, of course. So have the EECPA.” Inspector Cervi said in placating tones. “But in this instance—and I believe you will agree—the situation is too delicate for our usual methods.”

Cardinal Tondocello nodded. “Of course. We were informed last night. They are not adequate to this.” He lifted his hand to indicate the crowd three stories down from his study window. “That you arrived by helicopter is proof of the gravity of the situation.”

“The crowd is now estimated at forty to fifty thousand,” said Inspector Cervi. “According to INS, that is low. They are estimating it at seventy-five to eighty thousand in their news programs.”

“So many gathered like this is a…dangerous environment. And when you consider the controversy of the occasion, the risks are greater. Anything might happen. It would take very little to turn that crowd into a mob. Or worse,” added Inspector Fleche.

“What could be worse than a mob?” asked Cardinal Tondocello. “Are you afraid that there might be a deliberate attempt to disrupt the Pope’s arrival? I don’t mean Requiems on the bridge or Masses at Sant’ Angelo.”

“It is something we must anticipate, little as we might want to. It would not be difficult to work the crowd into a frenzy, and then it could turn violent quickly. We don’t want anyone getting hurt or killed because the Chinese Pope is coming. We may have to take necessary steps to reduce the volatility of that crowd. But we do not want to use aggressive measures, not here, with the whole world watching. It would be a very bad beginning for the new Pope. If there is a riot here, then it will signal more of them in other places. And there could be more dangerous factors here than we know,” said Commander Bouleau.

“How do you mean?” asked Cardinal Tondocello. His back was sore and his eyes were tired; it was only three in the afternoon. He longed to be back in Palermo.

“Well,” said Inspector Cervi in a studious and polite manner, “as far as we are aware, there has been no official notice from the Vatican that the…the Chinese woman has arrived in Italy, and yet everyone out there is here, expecting to meet her. How did they learn she had arrived?”

Cardinal Tondocello shrugged. “Someone might have noticed her landing at the airport. All those police were not inconspicuous. Someone might have recognized one of the Cardinals at the train station. They all wore secular clothes, but Cardinal Gemme and Cardinal Cadini are familiar faces to the public. The whole world has been waiting for Zhuang Renxin to come here. There is likely to be a vigil, no matter what announcements are made, and so we’ve said nothing. I am not surprised that we could not keep so momentous a secret.”

“But so many people. The Mass at Castel’ Sant’ Angelo. There are groups carrying banners and placards protesting the election of this woman, including about twenty Chinese students here to learn musical composition.” Inspector Fleche leaned forward in his chair, a scarecrow-thin man with wiry mop of khaki hair. “Twenty Chinese students are nothing. If they were all we had to contend with, we would not need to speak with you. But for every supporter of the new Pope, there is at least one detractor. Many protesting are Catholics, Eminence. This concerns us all very much.”

“No more than we are concerned here at the Vatican,” said Cardinal Tondocello. He was afraid he was whining when he wanted most to be forceful. “We do not want to alienate anyone who might come to salvation through the Church, but we cannot defy the Holy Spirit because there are Catholics who have forgot the obedience that is part of their faith. Perhaps if we make a formal announcement, people will understand.” He hoped he expressed himself emphatically, but could see from the expressions of the Interpol men that he had not.

“Such an announcement should have come earlier, if at all. It will not make much difference to that crowd,” said Commander Bouleau. “It could easily make things worse, and we cannot condone any action that might turn the balance to violence.” He folded his hands; his square, stocky body and thinning hair reminded Cardinal Tondocello of a determined monk. “We must agree on a strategy, Your Eminence.”

Cardinal Tondocello sighed again, wishing now that he had never consented to work with the police in this matter; he had wanted to show that he was not a reactionary and at the time he was offered the task, it had seemed a good way to prove it. “I am at your disposal, gentlemen,” he told them, resigning himself to a dreadful afternoon.

* * *

By the time the train reached Empoli, news had spread that the Chinese woman was aboard. Seven thousand people poured into the station in the hope of getting a glimpse of her in the Vatican’s private car as it rolled on toward Siena. Police were called out, the newsmedia descended in noisy gaggles, and a riot was narrowly averted, but warnings flashed south along the route of the train, informing stations and crossings to be prepared for trouble, and all but two halts along the line were canceled to avoid another gathering like this.

“But this is ridiculous,” said Magistrate Zhuang as she peered out the window at the milling crowd with the armored police driving them back from the rails. “If I were to go to the window, wouldn’t that satisfy their curiosity?”

“Keep away from there, Worthy Magistrate,” Cardinal Mendosa cautioned her in his clumsy Chinese. “It’s not bullet-proof.”

“Bullet-proof,” she scoffed. “You tell me that religious figures are men of peace. Why should bullet-proof glass be necessary?” She looked over at Willie Foot, who was at the other end of the car drinking espresso with Cardinal Cadini. “If this position has such privilege and beneficence, as you inform me it has, why should I fear being shot?”

“I got most of that,” said Cardinal Mendosa.

Willie picked up his little cup and came closer to Zhuang. “I should not have to explain to you, Worthy Magistrate. You are familiar with the theory: any position of power, beneficent and respected or not, is a position that is envied and sought by others. It is prudent to guard against the actions of those who are envious.”

“There is more to it than that,” Cardinal Mendosa went on, letting Willie translate for him instead of struggling to find the right words in Chinese. “It isn’t simply envy that drives men to struggle and bring down Popes. Power is part of it, yes, but there is the more complex aspect of faith. Whenever you question a man’s—or a woman’s—faith, there are problems.”

“Indeed?” said Zhuang Renxin. “Why should this be a question of faith at all? This is a matter of standard procedure. You Cardinals are the committee who selected the leader, and your decision is regarded as final. You made that clear to me. The only thing that is unusual in my case is that you have chosen me instead of one of your own number to be leader. You have acknowledged this. Why should it have any bearing on faith?”

The train was moving again, slowly at first, but gathering speed.

“It goes to the heart of—” began Cardinal Ochoa forcefully.

“We’ve been over this before, Worthy Magistrate,” Cardinal Mendosa interrupted. “You know most of the answers already. And I am afraid some of my colleagues do not enjoy intellectual fencing as much as you and I do.”

She looked over at him when Willie was done. “Mendosa, you are wily.”

“Thank you, Worthy Magistrate.” This was in Chinese, so that the other Cardinals would not be offended by her title.

“Still,” Cardinal Cadini said as he strolled the length of the car, only once pausing to hold the back of a sofa as the train accelerated around a very long curve, “it will be a problem, Holiness. You are entering a convoluted world and you are not truly prepared for it. We, who have given most of our lives to the Church and her workings are never truly prepared for it; you have more to learn in less time than we do. You saw those people at the station. There are millions of them all over the world who are going to be satisfied or upset by your election, and they will want their feelings known.”

“You’re a unique event in Church history,” added Cardinal Gemme, abandoning his newspaper and coming to the cluster of sofas where Zhuang sat.

“You make her sound like a volcanic eruption,” said Cardinal Mendosa with an edge to his voice.

“It’s an apt description,” said Cardinal Gemme as he considered his remark. “Nothing like her has happened before. That makes her doubly interesting: she is unique and unexpected. There are those who will want to reach you because of your uniqueness, if nothing else.”

“And there are hunters who would kill the last of an endangered species to have the unique distinction of killing the last of its kind,” said Cardinal Mendosa, this time deliberately in English.

“Charming image,” Willie remarked over his shoulder to Cardinal Mendosa. “Do you want me to translate it?”

“Not especially,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “It’s too near the bone.”

Cardinal Gemme had been expanding on his thesis, and now Cardinal Cadini said, “This occasion is unique for a number of reasons, and one of them is the world-wide attention focused on you, Holiness. We are privileged to witness these events, the more so because we are near the person—you, Holiness—who has brought them about. Our proximity gives us credibility.”

“This is not a carnival, to entertain, or a debate among diplomats, to negotiate. This is the Church, where we strive for the redemption of the world,” grumbled Cardinal Ochoa.

“Not quite so fast, Eminences,” Willie requested as he continued to translate.

“Everywhere in the world, yes, that is the issue, the world,” said Cardinal van Hooven, who had been so silent that the others assumed he was napping. “Everywhere in the world they are watching. Everyone in the world will know within minutes that the tiara has been placed on her head, and almost all of them will have an opinion about it. This will be the one activity most observed. We must not do this in secret, behind doors with the excuse of doctrine and clandestine purpose to mask our celebration. This time we must change clothes, as it were, in full view, in the light.” He looked toward the connecting door to the private compartments. “Should we call Cardinal Shumwoe and Cardinal Pingari? Did they say when they wanted to join us?”

“They’re at devotions: leave them be. If something arises, they’ll know,” said Cardinal Cadini amiably, glancing the other way toward the locked door between the Vatican car and the rest of the train. “Perhaps we should request more guards? At the next station, there might be a larger crowd waiting. It would not be wise to have an incident now, and the guards might want a freer hand in controlling the people.”

“Do you think we need more? You, of all people?” asked Cardinal van Hooven. “We are not an armed camp.”

“We have three armed guards the other side of that door. Two more are at the rear of the train.” Cardinal Cadini looked from Zhuang to Cardinal Mendosa. “You’ve had the most experience, my friend. Do we have sufficient protection? If the crowds are any greater we might—”

Cardinal Gemme straightened his jacket and tie and touched his lapel pins. “I’ll attend to it.” He started toward the door. “What shall we tell them?”

“That we don’t want them to endanger themselves needlessly. If they believe they cannot contain the crowds, they should increase their numbers so that they can,” suggested Cardinal Cadini. “We have an obligation to protect the Pope.”

“In the full glare of public attention,” added Cardinal Gemme before he released the locks on the door.

“So much attention creates demands of its own,” said Zhuang Renxin, watching the Cardinals while listening to Willie translate for her. She did not want to appear as baffled as she felt, for she took Mendosa’s warning to heart—that any sign of weakness could be exploited by the Cardinals, and any appearance of confusion would be regarded as incompetence by many of them—and was at pains to reveal little of her growing consternation to any of them except to Mendosa himself, and that only in private.

“To say nothing of the controversy,” Willie added. “If this election were more regular, it would be nothing more than the usual hype.”

“There are many people who are waiting for an excuse to criticize you, Holiness, because they are upset at the changes taking place.” Cardinal Cadini met her steady gaze with a merry glint in his raisin eyes.

“There was the reason I requested as much material as you could provide in my language, so that I might have a better understanding of the nature of this Church.” Zhuang started to give him an answering smile; it faded quickly. “There is so much to know. I am very ignorant, and that must not continue. You are right: there are those who will challenge my position, just as I question it myself. But I have been reading, and I will shortly have many matters to ask you about.”

“You’re all gonna love this,” said Cardinal Mendosa softly.

“Especially since most of them will be directed at you, I suspect,” Willie observed. He nodded toward the window, indicating the voluptuous contours of the Tuscan hills and implying the world beyond. “They are the ones who will demand answers.”

Imperceptibly the train began to slow.

Zhuang looked sharply at Willie. “How can these people demand answers, when they are supposedly subjects of the Church, and as such must accept its teaching?” She leaned back against the deep sofa cushions; the tapestry upholstery made her simple blue-black garments seem out of place. She gave Willie the chance to turn her question into Italian and English; when she went on there was a slight smile on her mouth. “It is good that they demand answers, I think. Everything I have read tells me that they are entitled to answers, and that the Church has been remiss in providing them, too much like an autocratic parent.”

Cardinal Cadini laughed as Willie translated. “Very good, Holiness,” he approved.

“It’s a spanner in the works, right enough,” Willie confirmed.

“It is folly to let our flock mill about without guidance. If we permit endless questions, Catholics will lose confidence in what we say. Tell her that her parental analogy is apt: we must guide the children of the Church,” said Cardinal Ochoa, doing his best not to be indignant. “I doubt she can understand how important it is for the Church to guide her children. She is not from a country where such guidance is fostered.”

“There you are wrong,” said Zhuang Renxin when Willie finished translating. Her tone was firm and cordial at once, as it had been when she was announcing her magisterial decisions. “In China we are taught responsibility for the welfare of the people. Your Jesus spoke of the same thing. From what I have read, he asked the people to come to him if their burdens were too great and he would provide sustenance and comfort. He said nothing about making decisions for the people, but encouraged them to decide responsibly. Have I misunderstood?”

Cardinal Cadini grinned. “You have understood perfectly, Holiness,” he said. “Better than most of us do.”

Zhuang did not share his amusement. “I have been asked to take on a task. It was not a task I sought; nevertheless I will do it as well as I am able, because I believe that it is proper to serve the interests of the people. We may have learned the dictates of Chairman Mao and his illustrious successors in China, but we have also been taught the ways of Kung Futzu—”

“Confucius,” murmured Cardinal Mendosa.

“—and we know what is required for correct living. I will maintain my integrity, Worthy Officials, and I will not be turned from the purpose you have asked me to direct.” She raised her head, startled as she noticed the train slowing down. “What is this? Why are we stopping?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Cardinal Mendosa, who looked out the window and saw up ahead only a simple country crossing with vineyards to the east of the track and orchards to the west. Four police cars were blocking the road, two on either side of the crossing. “Our extra protection?”

Cardinal Cadini followed his glance. “Goodness. What now?”

The train was almost at a halt, the brakes groaning.

“What is this all about?” demanded Zhuang in heavily accented English.

“There are police cars,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Interpol or Eurocops, I guess,” he said, using the standard nickname for the five-year-old European Economic Community Police Agency. “Blue stripes on white.” He said it with satisfaction. “Eurocops.”

Cardinal Ochoa shook his head. “What can they want with us?”

The train lurched and stopped.

“Whatever it is, we’ll find out shortly,” said Cardinal Cadini. He found the most comfortable chair and sat down, completely unruffled. “I have a grand-nephew who is in the EECPA; in the forgery division. He is a specialist in forged antiquities, mostly Etruscan.” He beamed. “Relax, Eminences. There is no reason to suppose we will be harassed.”

“You cannot be sure,” said Cardinal Ochoa darkly. “You are all aware of how quickly we could become enmeshed in legal problems. The police have stopped the train. It does not bode well. What if her”—he flung the word in the direction of Zhuang—“papers are not in order?”

“They would have noticed at Milan,” said Cardinal Mendosa quietly. “Or at Hong Kong. Don’t get your bowels in an uproar, Your Eminence. We went through all that protocol-and-papers crap before we left China.” He came away from the window and sat down opposite Zhuang. “Whatever the cause of this delay, Worthy Magistrate, they’ll let us know.”

“Good,” she said, and looked toward the service bar. “Is there tea?”

“There can be,” said Cardinal Mendosa at once, getting up. “Willie, do you want—”

“Coffee for me, if you please.” Willie fiddled with his tie. “Not to seem alarmist, but do you think there could be real trouble in Rome? You saw what the place looked like on the news.” He pointed to the small television set over the service bar. “What if it’s got worse?”

“Oh, there’s trouble in Rome, no doubt of it,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he went about the task of filling the teapot with water and popping it into the microwave, then putting loose tea leaves in a strainer. “But we’re prepared for that. We got plenty of warning. No, I think this is probably just a ploy, something to make sure no one gets caught with his ass hanging out.”

“You mean the cops?” Willie asked.

“I mean the whole bloody government, chum.” Cardinal Mendosa busied himself arranging two cups on a tray. “Anyone else?” he offered before taking the pot from the microwave with mittened hands.

“I would be honored,” said Cardinal Cadini as if Zhuang, not Cardinal Mendosa, had issued the invitation.

“If there’s plenty, I’ll have some,” said Cardinal van Hooven, straightening his glasses on his nose. “Is there any lemon?”

“Probably,” said Cardinal Mendosa. He opened the little refrigerator and peered into it. “Nope. Sorry. No lemon. There’s a lime in here, if you think it might do.”

“It might; I’ll try it.” Cardinal van Hooven got up and came over to the cluster of sofas around Zhuang Renxin.

Willie Foot looked over at Cardinal Mendosa. “Are you going to have some, or is this an exercise in complete humility.”

“Yes; I’m having some.” He was busy slicing a few wafers of lime. “But I tell you, right now I could use a stiff bourbon-and-branchwater.” He regarded Willie with sardonic amusement. “There’s a bottle of very old single-malt scotch back here. I can pour you a wee dram if you like.”

“Later,” Willie recommended. “Right now we need all our wits about us, or I’m round the bend.” He cocked his head toward the door. “I hope Gemme isn’t having too rough a time with the Eurocops.”

“Oh, he can handle ‘em,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he put the strainer of tea into the pot. “All right. Tea’s coming.” He made his way around the service bar with the tray. “Here it is.” He put the tray on the small coffee table and was about to resume his seat when the connecting door opened and Cardinal Gemme, looking flustered, came back into the car.

“What is wrong?” asked Zhuang, first in Chinese, then in English.

Cardinal Gemme frowned. “There seems to be…that is, I have been told that there are large crowds waiting at stations all along the line. The police are concerned for your safety, Holiness.”

Zhuang listened attentively to the translation. “What do they fear will happen on this account?” she asked.

“They don’t know; that’s the trouble. There could be riots.” Cardinal Gemme suddenly looked ashamed. “They have replaced our guards with their own, and they want their men to ride in the car with us.” He shook his head. “I tried to refuse them, Holiness, but they are very insistent.”

As this was explained to her, Zhuang’s expression darkened. “I am not some terrorist or criminal to have to arrive surrounded by guards and cordons of police,” she said, then looked to Cardinal Mendosa. “Or am I?”

“You are not,” said the Texan at once.

“They want to talk to us,” said Cardinal Gemme. “They want to make arrangements. Before we reach Rome.”

“Before we reach Orvieto,” Cardinal Mendosa interjected. “That’s the next big station.”

Cardinal Gemme gave a quick, hard sigh. “We’d better talk to them. If we don’t, they’ll keep the train here as long as the Ministry of Transport will let them.”

“Grand,” said Cardinal Mendosa, reaching forward to pour the tea. “And that gives a chance for frustration to build up in the crowds. Well, Worthy Magistrate, do you want to speak to these policemen? They are here to protect you, or so they will tell you. They are also curious and ambitious, but pay no attention to that.”

Willie translated for him, adding, “He’s right about the last. If you don’t see them, they might make things unpleasant for you.”

Zhuang took her cup, and stated, “I must accustom myself. I will see the two leaders. They must have two leaders, or a leader and his lieutenant.”

“All right,” said Cardinal Gemme when this was translated. “Anyone else?”

“Don’t be a fool,” said Cardinal Mendosa sharply. “She’s right. We’ll have every Eurocop from here to Naples stopping the train if we don’t impose some limits right now.” He poured out a cup of tea for Cardinal van Hooven. “The top two honchos, Cardinal Gemme, and no one else.”

“Since you insist,” said Cardinal Gemme as he prepared to leave the car, “I’ll let you handle them when they arrive.”

“Pleasure,” said Cardinal Mendosa, and looked over at Cardinal Cadini. “You’re keeping very quiet, Vitale.”

“Not precisely,” said Cardinal Cadini. “I am wondering how much protection the…Eurocops will be. They will come swarming, won’t they? Such activity attracts attention. This is as bad as a mob, in its way.” His eyes became distant. “You would think they have never seen a Chinese woman before.”

“Well,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he finished pouring the tea, “in a sense they haven’t. Not as Pope, at least.”

Cardinal Cadini took a long, slow breath. “What is better do you think? Do we send for Cardinal Pingari and Cardinal Shumwoe, or do we remain as we are? Would an African and a Filipino make our position better or worse?” He glanced at Willie Foot. “When I entered the priesthood, no one seriously supposed there would ever be a Japanese Cardinal. Pius XII was a man of very narrow views. The only reason for permitting Africans to advance in the Church was to justify our missionaries in Africa. How were we supposed to convert them if we did not allow them advancement in the Church?” He turned toward Cardinal van Hooven. “I remember the scandal there was when you became a Cardinal. You, a psychiatrist! Half the College thought Paul had lost his mind. Suddenly my anthropology degree was not nearly as shocking as it had been.”

Zhuang heard this out with interest, interest she knew was expected. “Is this another warning? You have few Asians in your Church who have advanced far, is that your concern?”

“Not exactly,” said Cardinal Cadini. “It is true that we have very few Asians above the rank of Bishop in the Church. More to the point, we have no women of any rank at all. Nuns take vows, but are granted no ordination in return for their dedication.” He would have gone on but the door opened again and Cardinal Gemme, his chin a little higher than usual, came into the car.

“Captains Hafen and Sigura of the European Economic Community Police Agency.” He stood aside quickly as the two men surged into the car. Both were tall, both were lean, both were fair, both wore dark, conservative suits and regimental ties.

“Ye gods and little fishes,” whispered Cardinal Mendosa so that only Willie could hear him. “Clones.”

One of the two men knelt, and the Cardinals rose, Cardinal Ochoa being the only one to extend his ring.

“He will serve for all,” said Cardinal Cadini pleasantly in Spanish, and was surprised when the kneeling man answered in Austrian-flavored German.

“Many thanks, Eminences,” he rose, crossed himself and continued in Italian, “I am Captain Hafen. Captain Sigura isn’t Catholic.” This was almost an apology. “I cannot tell you how great an honor it is for me to be able to serve the College of Cardinals and the Vatican.” He was looking directly at Zhuang Renxin with undisguised curiosity.

“Worthy Magistrate,” said Cardinal Mendosa in his awkward Chinese, “these are policemen. Hafen and Sigura.” His gestures cautioned her not to rise. “They are here to discuss your safety.”

Zhuang laughed aloud. “That is the wrong inflection, Mendosa,” she pointed out in Chinese. “I realize what you intended to say, but you did not—”

She bowed slightly as her laughter ceased and addressed the two Captains. “Thank you for coming,” she said to them in English.

The Eurocops goggled as if they had not expected her to speak any language at all. Captain Sigura recovered first. “It’s our job, Madame,” he told her somberly.

“Of course. But I am pleased you are here, nonetheless,” she answered in Chinese and let Willie translate.

“We owe you an explanation for our intrusion,” said Captain Hafen.

“Not at all. I gather you are worried about the train being mobbed,” said Cardinal Cadini, approaching the two Eurocops with a genial grin. “If half of what we have been told is true, there is a very good reason for your concern. Tell us what you have in mind.”

Captain Sigura’s gaze swept the room suspiciously. When he spoke he sounded angry. “We are posting forty men on this train. We don’t want anything to happen to this…woman.”

“Of course not; and you’re taking sensible precautions. We were just remarking on how easily harm could come to the Pope,” said Cardinal Cadini, making a point of radiating his famous charm. “None of us could want that. At the same time, no one wants to draw attention to how vulnerable she is. Which is why you have stopped the train in this remote place, so that no one would learn of your plans but us. Very prudent.”

Under this amiable onslaught some of Captain Sigura’s hostility faded. “We must not let word of…the woman’s arrival in Rome leak out, not until we know we can bring her to the Vatican without incident. The men we are putting on this train are here to guard her, in case anything more drastic than Siena occurs. We cannot afford to permit anything or anyone to harm her. We have problems enough without that.” He shot a single, speaking look at Captain Hafen. “The newsmedia are everywhere.”

“Naturally. You have your work; they have theirs. Neither you nor they have any need to apologize for doing your work. This is a most remarkable story. You can’t blame them for trying to make the most of it, can you?” Cardinal Cadini sat down, indicating two chairs near the cluster of sofas. “Please. We’ll all be more comfortable if we do not stand on ceremony—or our feet.”

It was not very funny but everyone laughed dutifully.

“The guard on the train is an emergency measure. We don’t intend to provide her constant security. It isn’t appropriate. We are reluctant to give this woman an armed escort from the train station to the Vatican, to be candid. The Roman police have already requested that we delay her arrival until very late at night, when most of the demonstrators are gone. We’re supporting their request. Officials at the Vatican have said they would rather not have any kind of weapons in her escort. They believe it would invite violence.” Captain Sigura frowned at Zhuang. “But the way things are, I believe it is necessary. If you have seen the news, you will know that Rome is explosive now, and because of that, we think it would be best if we take her to the Vatican as discreetly as possible, and that means armed men and a guarded transport. There is no other way to get her to the Vatican without exposing her to great danger.”

As Willie translated, Zhuang’s face set into an expressionless mask. “I see,” she said quietly. “I hadn’t realized how difficult this could become. Tell me, do you think that many people would be hurt if I attempt to get through the crowd during the day?”

“It is possible,” said Captain Hafen.

“It is likely,” said Captain Sigura at the same time.

Zhuang considered her answer. “Willie, tell them that I do not want anyone hurt because I have come. From what you and Mendosa have told me, there are many who fear what I may do. If I begin by causing harm, those who are in doubt will then be certain I bring ruin. I dislike the notion of stealth, but if that is the means to lessen the tension in Rome, then decide on a time of night when it will be safest for me to arrive.”

Cardinal Cadini started to protest; Cardinal Ochoa gave her a look of grudging respect.

“I dislike the idea of you sneaking into the Vatican, too,” said Cardinal van Hooven after a moment of reflection. “It looks too secretive and shabby. It could be as damaging as a serious riot.”

Cardinal Ochoa and Cardinal Cadini protested at once, for two entirely different reasons. Cardinal Cadini gestured them into silence. Captains Sigura and Hafen exchanged a single, apprehensive nod.

“If you are certain it is a bad idea, then propose something better,” Cardinal Cadini recommended. “Aren’t Texans noted for their ingenuity?” This was directed to Cardinal Mendosa.

“That’s one word for it.” Cardinal Mendosa leaned back and focused his eyes on the middle distance. “We’ll arrange it.”

“In the meantime, we will begin—” said Captain Sigura.

“There is another way,” said Cardinal Mendosa, cutting through the rest. When he had everyone’s attention, he said, “I am convinced that Zhuang is right, and she must not cause any unpleasantness when she arrives at the Vatican. No argument there. At the same time, she is not a spy or a scoundrel, needing to enter her own house by stealth.”

“It’s an impasse,” said Cardinal Cadini sadly.

“No, it’s not,” said Cardinal Mendosa with a lazy grin. “We’ve been trying to think how to get through the problem, when what we ought to do is get over it. Captains,” he went on, speaking to the Eurocops, “do you think you can arrange for us to be brought in by helicopter? There’s space enough at the Vatican to set a couple of them down.”

Captain Hafen smiled; Captain Sigura nodded sagely.

When Willie finished translating, Zhuang looked over at Cardinal Mendosa. “Will they permit it?”

“Permit what, Worthy Magistrate?” He used English and ignored the hard stares of the others.

“Will they permit us to land a helicopter at the Vatican?” She watched him closely as she listened to Willie.

“Well, hell’s bells, Zhuang,” said Cardinal Mendosa, his grin widening, “you can do what you want; you’re the Pope. It’s not what they’ll permit, it’s what you’ll permit.”

She listened with great concentration. “Is there any mistake in arriving by helicopter? Is it worthy conduct?”

Cardinal Cadini chortled. “Who knows? No new Pope’s ever done it before.”

“But is it correct?” Zhuang persisted.

This time Cardinal Mendosa leaned forward and looked directly into her eyes. “Is it what you want to do?”

She glanced at the two EECPA Captains and back at Mendosa. “Willie, tell them—” she began in Chinese. “No,” she went on in English. “I will say it myself. Yes.”

Cardinal Mendosa shrugged. “If that’s what you want, it’s what we do. You’re the Pope; you want to arrive in a helicopter. Your wanting it makes it all right by me. Not that that matters.” He turned to Hafen and Sigura. “What do you think? Can we pull it off?”

Captain Sigura answered first. “There is a private airport about ten kilometers north of Orvieto. The men could remain on the train, in case of trouble down the way. It might confuse the press, too. We could stop the train there and obtain an escort—”

“A small escort,” Willie suggested. “They’re waiting for her in Orvieto and you don’t want to alert them, do you?”

“A small escort,” Captain Hafen conceded.

“That would give the Roman police and the Vatican security force time to clear the landing area,” said Captain Sigura. “And we’ll use EECPA helicopters.”

“I have never been in a helicopter in my life,” complained Cardinal Ochoa, though no one listened to him.

“Make that three,” Cardinal Mendosa recommended, entering into the plans with satisfaction. “If there’s just two helicopters, some lunatic could decide to take a shot at one of them. It’s not so likely to happen with three. Spreads the risk around a little. And it keeps us from having too many Cardinals wiped out if anything goes wrong.”

“Sounds reasonable, I have to admit,” said Captain Hafen. “We’ll get on the radio and—”

“Radios leak,” Cardinal Mendosa warned.

“In code, in code,” said Captain Sigura.

“If you were planning that I should come with you, Charles,” said Cardinal Cadini, “I would just as soon continue on the train. I don’t like heights, and if there is any need to field questions from the press, they know me.”

“So they do. They know me as well. I will stay on with you,” offered Cardinal Gemme. “But I think Cardinal Mendosa’s point is well-taken,” he went on to the Eurocops. “If the escort remains on the train and Cardinal Cadini and I stay aboard, it’s less likely that the newsmedia will get wind of what is going on, and will only learn of the diversion after Zhuang is safely at the Vatican.”

“It makes sense,” said Captain Hafen.

“Okay,” said Cardinal Mendosa, and once more grinned at Zhuang Renxin. “Well, Your Holiness, you got your helicopters.”

Chapter 18

A few minutes after two in the morning three white-and-blue EECPA helicopters came fluttering over Rome from the north. They were no different than any other Eurocop helicopters, and very few people paid much notice of them, if they were aware of them at all.

Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung stood in full diplomatic regalia at the entrance to the garden, surrounded by Vatican security. A few were obvious in their Swiss Guard uniforms, but most were in inconspicuous clothing; they were armed and efficient. Cardinal Jung despised them all on theological grounds almost as adamantly as he insisted on them for pragmatic reasons. He squinted up at the approaching helicopters. Some distance away there was a knot of priests with Dominique, Cardinal Hetre and Vincent, Cardinal Walgren, all of them trying to restrain the excitement and curiosity that consumed them. Everyone was speaking and hardly anyone was heard.

“Is the entire reception committee here?” asked one of the senior security men. He had a strong Genoese accent and a face like a twelfth-century steel helmet.

“Not all. Not yet,” said Cardinal Jung. Ever since the scrambled phone call had come warning the Cardinals of the imminent arrival of the Chinese woman, he had been fuming. He had tried to convince Cardinal O’Higgins, Cardinal Tsukamara, Cardinal Lepescu, Cardinal Stevenson, and Cardinal Bakony to refuse to recognize the incoming Pope, but without success. Now they were gathering to welcome her. The idea that she would set foot on Vatican soil galled him; that they would have to greet her was almost intolerable.

“Have the rest been summoned?” persisted the security man.

Cardinal Jung scowled. “So I have been told.” He looked over his shoulder as if expecting to see assembled Cardinals trooping forward. “It is very late. It is inconvenient.”

“They had better come quickly, if they want to be here when the helicopters land,” said the security man with a nod in the direction of the approach. “They’ll land in three or four minutes. She’s in the first one.”

“No doubt with that Texan,” muttered Cardinal Jung, who coughed as if to dismiss his angry observation. He despised Cardinal Mendosa, a feeling which had given way to loathing as well when, against all reason and prudence, the Texan had gone to China and found the woman whose name they had written. If only Cardinal Mendosa had kept out of it, thought Cardinal Jung. If only Cardinal Mendosa had realized the situation was impossible, and accepted the wisdom of the rest. The Church would not have to face the embarrassment of this moment.

“That’s what the report said,” the security man told him as if he could not hear the animosity in Cardinal Jung’s voice. “Cardinal Mendosa and his translator are riding with…the Pope. You must be glad to have this long wait finally behind you.”

“Glad?” repeated Cardinal Jung, his glittery eyes starting to protrude from his head. “That we are being made the joke of the world? How can such a thing make me glad?” He turned abruptly at the sound of hurried footsteps; Alexander, Cardinal Bradeston was all but running toward the garden, trailed by two young American priests.

The security man nodded his approval. “About time. I hope more are coming. This is a pretty paltry turn-out so far. You don’t want her to think she’s unwelcome.” His smile told Cardinal Jung that the staff was fully aware of how most of the men felt about this distressing Papal election.

“It isn’t my decision,” Cardinal Jung said at his huffy best. “Little as we may like it, we have agreed that this is the will of the Holy Spirit.”

“Good enough for me,” said the security man, and took the portable telephone from his belt. “Better not use these any more tonight,” he said into the device. “We’re probably being picked up by eavesdroppers all over the city.”

There was a crackly reply, and the man returned the telephone to the clip on his belt. “Just a precaution, Your Eminence,” the man said to Cardinal Jung. “You can’t keep anything private on one of these things. Anyone with the right equipment can monitor what we say. Under the circumstances—”

Cardinal Jung sighed his compliance.

The lead helicopter was overhead now, and descending slowly, the rotors beating as fast and regularly as the innards of a bread-kneading machine. It was near enough for Cardinal Jung to make out an armed man in the seat beside the pilot. The noise was overwhelming.

Cardinal Bradeston came up beside Cardinal Jung. “We’re lucky to see this, Eminence,” he bellowed into Cardinal Jung’s ear, panting a little from his exertion. “This is an historic moment.”

“What?” Cardinal Jung shouted, not able to hear.

“We’re lucky to see this,” Cardinal Bradeston repeated more loudly, taking care with each word.

“If you insist,” said Cardinal Jung. He glanced at the Bostonian Cardinal, and noted with distaste that the man was wearing a business suit and lapel pins. He favored Cardinal Bradeston with a disdainful look before returning his attention to the lowering helicopters. He stopped praying they would crash.

The second and third helicopters paused, hovering, over the garden. From the roof of Saint Peter’s came a sudden, bright beam of light.

The security man nodded his approval.

Another searchlight on the roof of the Vatican Museum sprang to life and the three helicopters were suddenly suspended in their glow. From the banks of the Tevere there rose a ragged, waiting cry as those patient watchers began to realize what was happening.

“We’re going to need more protection,” said Cardinal Bradeston to the security man. “Listen to them.”

“It’s already been arranged. Two squads of Eurocops arrived ten minutes ago. They’re getting into position right now.” He had to yell this at Cardinal Bradeston and was aware that only half of his words were heard. “Better stand back, Your Eminences,” he added, pointing to a spot a little to the rear.

Cardinal Bradeston did not bother to answer. He retreated, plucking at Cardinal Jung’s satin sleeve to pull him along.

“What—?” Cardinal Jung blustered.

By now the lead helicopter was very close; the shrubbery around the garden tossed and writhed in the rotor-wash. The searchlight beams followed the helicopter as it dropped the last short distance to the mosaic court, landing squarely on the enormous inlaid crossed keys. The rotors whined as they slowed.

An instant later the security man gave a signal; half a dozen men in inobtrusive clothes rushed forward, surrounding the helicopter. All of them were armed, and their eyes were wary. Above them the other two helicopters hung on the might of their self-generated storms, waiting while the first was unloaded.

The door in the right side of the first helicopter was pulled open, and the armed man from the cockpit stepped out. He crouched in the glare, like a escaping convict trapped in prison surveillance lights, his machine pistol at the ready. A moment later he signaled to those inside.

Cardinal Mendosa appeared in the open door, his eyes shaded against the brilliance of the searchlights. The wind from the helicopters above rumpled his clothes and disarranged his badger-grey hair; he grinned. He waved once, then stepped out, turning to offer support to the person behind him.

Everyone in the garden fell silent as Zhuang Renxin put her hand on Cardinal Mendosa’s arm and emerged into the light. She peered at the shapes beyond the brightness and said something to Cardinal Mendosa, which caused Cardinal Mendosa to turn to the man just behind them. Willie Foot bent down and said something to the Chinese woman. The Chinese woman nodded and laughed.

“Welcome to Rome, Worthy Magistrate,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he knelt beside her.

“Mendosa, get up,” she said in her version of English.

For once he refused. “Not this time, Worthy Magistrate. If I don’t kneel the rest will not; they’ll assume I don’t recognize you for what you are,” said Cardinal Mendosa through Willie. “This time you will have to allow it, like it or not.”

“But there is no reason.” She looked around and then up at the remaining helicopters. “What cause can you have to make them—”

“Tell her to put her hand on my head,” said Cardinal Mendosa to Willie, not wanting to be misunderstood in Chinese. “Right now.”

Puzzled, Zhuang followed Cardinal Mendosa’s instructions. “I say this is most unnecessary, Mendosa, and unseemly. Now, get up,” she ordered when she had taken her hand from his brow.

Cardinal Mendosa obeyed with alacrity. “If you insist,” he told her in his inexpert Chinese. “Walk ahead of me, Worthy Magistrate,” he went on in English, as he motioned to Willie to fall in beside him. “Stay on the path toward the arch.”

“This is most absurd—” she protested even as she complied.

Cardinal Mendosa remained three steps behind her; he chuckled. “You ain’t seen serious absurd yet, Worthy Magistrate,” he said, but the words were lost in the surge of the rotors as the first helicopter prepared to rise, leaving room for next one to land.

* * *

In the antechamber to Dominique, Cardinal Hetre’s study, two men were waiting. Cardinal Hetre could sense their impatience through the closed door, and this served to increase the ferocity of his headache.

“Is there anything I can get for you, Eminence?” asked his second assistant, a tense young man from Fort Gary whose French was so Canadian that few of the Europeans could understand him.

“No,” he replied. “No.”

“Perhaps I should summon your physician,” suggested Father Duvenant.

“And have him tell me again that there is nothing wrong with me? No, thank you.” He saw the consternation in Father Duvenant’s face and did his best to modify his outburst. “And he may be right this one time. This last week must have given many of us headaches. If we are expected to come up with a coronation that changes the participation of the Pope in the Mass, well.…”

“Anyone would get a headache, most certainly,” said Father Duvenant. “Of course.” He did his best to look relieved. “I can’t say that I wish we could trade places, Eminence.”

“You would be mad if you did,” Cardinal Hetre said, wishing he could make a joke of it; flippancy came hard to him at the best of times. “Tell Cardinal Llanos and Cardinal Sinclair that I will be with them directly. Please. I’ll take something for my head and be along.”

“Do you want me to tell them?” asked Father Duvenant, “about your head?”

The French-Canadian Cardinal shook his head emphatically, which only served to increase the pain in his temples. “Of course not. It would only create problems. You know what the other Cardinals think. They are suspicious of my headaches. You’ll find a better way to make my excuses.”

Father Duvenant nodded once. “As you wish, Eminence.”

“You’re very good; probably better than I deserve,” said Cardinal Hetre, and squirmed at the uninvited images that surged through his mind. He knew he had to resist them for the sake of his soul; he could not succumb to those despicable needs, no matter how many others did. It was an offence to the Holy Spirit and his rank. He had known this all his life. The Church made no allowances for such appetites. He crossed himself once, appalled at the sudden vision of Father Duvenant naked and bowed before him. A prayer caught in his throat. How many times would he be tormented by these unholy lusts? He motioned Father Duvenant away.

Cardinal Llanos watched Father Duvenant as he came through the door. “How long must we wait?” he asked in impolite haste. Both he and Cardinal Sinclair were in secular dress, their dark suits as uniform as if they worked in the corporate world. Each wore his lapel pins and each had a crucifix tie-tack.

“Another ten minutes, Eminences. Fifteen at the most. He is not…not quite himself yet. Please, be seated and let me bring you some refreshments.” He was not sure what there was to offer these august men, but he knew that anything was preferable to leaving them cooling their heels, neglected in this little room.

“Fifteen at most,” said Cardinal Sinclair. “All right. But if His Eminence does not present himself then, we will have to leave. Regretfully, of course. Were it not for the…unusual developments of the last few days, we might have more leeway. With our daily press conference two hours away, there are more obligations ahead of us today beyond attending Cardinal Hetre.” His soft, Irish voice did not make his warning any less stern.

“I am sure he will be with you shortly,” said Father Duvenant. “It is the pressure of events.”

“Another headache,” said Cardinal Sinclair, and motioned away Father Duvenant’s protestations before he could voice them. “You don’t have to say anything, Father. We know the Cardinal of old and we have encountered these headaches of his for years. He can say what he wants: we understand.” He looked at Cardinal Llanos. “We’ll remember his suffering in our prayers.”

“Of course we will,” said Cardinal Llanos. He sighed. “But keep in mind, there is the coronation to prepare for. I’m convinced His Eminence wishes to give us the benefit of his prayerful reflection.”

“Most assuredly,” said Father Duvenant, who had been mulling over a few ideas of his own and hoped to present them to Cardinal Hetre in the next few days. “I know he has given many hours to contemplation and—”

Cardinal Llanos shook his head. “You need not tell us, Father; it’s not as if we were foreign press. Cardinal Hetre is as bewildered as the rest of us. None of us know what is best to do, not even Cardinal Mendosa.”

“But it must take place very soon,” Cardinal Sinclair said. “Every day we postpone the coronation is one day that those who oppose the Church gather strength and credibility from our inaction. It has been more than a week since she arrived. We must settle the matter soon.”

“Doubtless Cardinal Hetre is aware of these things,” said Father Duvenant. “I have heard him discuss them with members of the Curia.”

“Leave the Curia out of this,” begged Cardinal Sinclair. “They’re the worst of all. Cardinal Fiorivi has already protested the Curia’s refusal to admit any non-Catholics to the Vatican until after the coronation of the Pope.” He forestalled Father Duvenant’s questions with a single raised finger. “And do not bring up the issue of calling her Pope. That is the proper title. Male or female or anything in between, we still call the Pope Pope. That much we can agree upon.”

Cardinal Llanos glanced at his watch. “Our time is truly short, Father. Do you suppose we might ask His Eminence if he is ready to join us?” His outward patience stung Father Duvenant to action.

“At once, Eminences,” he said, and hurried back to Cardinal Hetre.

“I’m nearly finished,” Cardinal Hetre lied. In the last few minutes his headache had worsened steadily. “Apologize for my tardiness. I’ll be along in a minute or two.” He wondered as he said it if he would be able to walk without staggering.

“As you wish, Eminence,” said Father Duvenant, his face so expressionless that Cardinal Hetre guessed the priest knew he had not mastered his pain.

Left alone, Cardinal Hetre doubled over, his breath short and fast. Things had gone too far, much too far. He would have to speak to someone about stopping the coronation, and quickly. He could not stand idly by and see that woman ascend the Throne of Saint Peter. It was unthinkable. It was blasphemous. It was obscene.

* * *

“Why should all this pomp be necessary?” Zhuang asked Cardinal Mendosa as he guided her down the nave of Saint Peter’s. Her simple dark silk jacket and trousers seemed out of place in all this magnificence. Willie Foot followed after them, filling in where required. “I have been reading the records of what this man Jesus taught, and he said nothing worthy about finery and display, not as achievements.”

“That’s true,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “In fact, Jesus was in favor of giving up unnecessary goods to those in need. That is why the Church has so many charitable institutions, and one of the reasons the clergy is not supposed to own private property.”

“But the Church owns all of this,” said Zhuang reasonably, indicating the splendor around her. “It is oppressive to its people in order to amass this treasure. This is exploitation and an unworthy act. Jesus condemned it, from what I have read.”

“That He did,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “But we are no longer fishermen and carpenters in Judea. And I ought to remind you that fishermen and carpenters were not poor working men, not then. Those men gave up good earnings and social position to learn from Jesus. But things have changed in the last two thousand years. The Church is no longer in the hands of His disciples.”

“I should say not,” Zhuang agreed, stern disapproval in her face. “It is in the hands of.…” She frowned as she tried to recall her reading. “Didn’t Jesus drive the bankers out of the church?”

“Money-lenders from the Temple, if you want to be more accurate, though it is much the same thing,” Willie told her in Chinese before he translated her question for Cardinal Mendosa.

“Yes,” said Zhuang. “And the money-lenders have returned and multiplied. I understand the Vatican has a bank of its own.” She laughed once. “How can anyone think that this Church, with all its power and politics, is what Jesus had in mind when he was alive?”

“The Church believes it is,” said Cardinal Mendosa very carefully.

“But how is that possible? How can people make such assumptions in the face of what their own Master taught them? They read your translations of what he said, and do the opposite of what he recommended. This is not sensible.” She gestured toward the Papal altar. “Look at that. It is supposed to be in memory of that last evening meal, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you told me? This is no table for a private dinner.”

“No, it isn’t,” agreed Cardinal Mendosa in Chinese, and returned to English for the rest. “But there have been many followers of Jesus who have taught other things, and they, in their wisdom, have brought the Church to—”

“To this place,” said Zhuang. “I find it difficult to accept that those who profess to hold the word of Jesus sacred would give equal and greater weight to the commentaries on his teaching, particularly when those later writers countermand what Jesus taught.” She folded her arms and stared up at Michaelangelo’s dome. “Those later writings are commentaries, nothing more, no matter how learned. They cannot have the same significance as what Jesus said. You know, Mendosa, I am beginning to think you were correct to come to me, after all. I can see why I am needed, to restore a proper balance in your Church teaching.”

“Spoken like a true Confucianist,” said Cardinal Mendosa when Willie had finished. “And you’re probably right.”

“You sound surprised,” said Zhuang, looking directly at Cardinal Mendosa.

He shook his head, a faint smile in his eyes. “Not really.”

She was willing to take him at his word. She approached the altar. “This building is so vast. Must it be the place where the coronation takes place?”

“Yes,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “You would upset many, many people if you refused to have the ceremony here.”

“I have already upset many, many people,” she said in cadenced English. “But your point is made,” she went on in Chinese. “There is no good reason to oppose the tradition, though I dislike such pomp. It serves only to remind me that the Church is an instrument of oppression and exploitation, where it is supposed to be a haven.”

“You’ll get your chance to change that,” said Cardinal Mendosa.

She looked around the basilica again, her face filled with doubt. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was distant. “So you tell me.”

* * *

“We are pleased to announce,” said Vitale, Cardinal Cadini at the start of the Vatican’s daily press conference two days later, “that the Papal coronation will take place in six days, on the Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary. That is August 15th, for those of you not familiar with the calendar of saints.” He chuckled to let the reporters know he was not slighting them. He beamed as the questions began, not the slightest flicker betraying the long hours of controversy which had led to this decision.

A tall reporter from Oslo made himself heard over the babble. “What about the Mass, Cardinal? Will it be modified?”

The roar of accompanying questions made it impossible for Cardinal Cadini to answer at once. He held up his hands, waiting amiably while the noise diminished. “Thank you,” he said when he knew they were listening again. “Now I know how the early Christians felt, facing the lions,” he quipped, and let the reporters be amused. “It would be easier if you do not all try to speak at once. And yes, there will be modifications in the Mass. There must be. Zhuang Renxin is not an ordained priest or yet Bishop of Rome, and has said she does not wish to become either one.”

“Doesn’t that cause problems?” one of the Greek reporters bellowed.

“Certainly it does,” said Cardinal Cadini at his most disarming. “What would be the point of denying the problems? The entire election has caused problems. But we will not set ourselves against the manifested will of the Holy Spirit. There are measures we can take to adapt the Mass for these…remarkable circumstances, and I assure you that they will be carefully scrutinized during our preparations, to ensure the integrity of the elevation.” He nodded toward a woman from Sao Paolo. “What is it?”

The woman cleared her throat and almost lost her chance to speak. “It doesn’t seem likely that the College of Cardinals would be able to agree about every change required by such a Mass. Have there been clashes?”

“Naturally. There have been clashes,” said Cardinal Cadini with his usual smiling candor. “But that’s nothing new. There are clashes constantly in the College of Cardinals. It did not take the coming of Zhuang Renxin to do that. We have always debated and argued. It is part of our purpose. In this instance, we have disagreed more often because we are less certain of how we should proceed.” He shrugged eloquently.

The next volley of questions came more quickly, and Cardinal Cadini provided a blanket answer.

“I’m afraid I can’t give you the details of the Coronation Mass because, frankly, we are still working them out. We will prepare a full release to issue in four days. Every one of you will receive the text. Until then, it would be most incorrect of me to speculate on the final form the Mass will take.” He hesitated. “We are planning to continue our daily press conferences until the coronation. We are also going to keep the Vatican closed until the celebration. This is for the protection of Zhuang Renxin and for public safety. I need hardly remind you of the hundreds of thousands of people who have come here in the last month. We are not prepared to guarantee the safety of so large a crowd.”

“What about the threats? Have there been threats on her life?” demanded a newsman from a Los Angeles tabloid.

“There are always threats to the Pope,” said Cardinal Cadini mildly. “There are threats to Cardinals and Bishops and monks as well. It is part of the job, as they say, to receive threats. Perhaps,” he added with a trace of mischief, “a few of you might have received a threat or two at some time?”

“What precautions are being taken?” shouted a journalist from Egypt.

“The same we have taken in the past. We have our own Vatican security forces, and the assistance of the EECPA and Interpol,” Cardinal Cadini answered, continuing, “The Pope is given the same protection as other heads of state. You’re all aware of that, aren’t you?”

Another barrage of questions came, none of them distinct.

Again Cardinal Cadini held up his hands. “Please, please, ladies and gentlemen. I can’t answer you if you all shout at once, and in so many languages. Be patient, if you will. I’ll answer as many of you as I can in the time allotted. Now then. The gentleman from Warsaw. What is your question?”

“The Separatists are claiming their numbers have increased steadily since the election of this Chinese woman was announced. Have you anything to say to that?” It was the same question he had been asking for over a week, but Cardinal Cadini answered it as if it were new to him.

“The Separatists are well-intentioned but misguided. They claim that the Church has lost the mandate of the Holy Spirit. They are saying that the current election is proof of that. But I ask how, if not by the mandate of the Holy Spirit, could the entire College of Cardinals unanimously elect a woman Magistrate in China? Still I do understand the difficulties many Catholics are experiencing now, nor am I surprised that the Separatists are taking advantage of the confusion. It does not astonish me that others share this confusion. It saddens me that there are so many willing to take advantage of the doubts of Catholics. And I am confident that in time most of them who now turn to the Separatists will realize that they have erred and will wish to return to the Church. Those who follow the Separatists in good conscience can reconcile themselves to the Church when their doubts are ended, and the Church will receive them gladly. I can comprehend why someone, faced with the tremendous changes of the last few months might seek something more familiar than the current Church appears to be. In turmoil most of us cling to what we have known before. It is a prudent mistake, to seek the familiar. But religion is not familiarity, it is mystery.” He smiled directly at the Polish reporter. “You may recall how many were upset when John-Paul II was first elected, but his election did not destroy the Church, as many predicted it would. The election of Zhuang Renxin may be more unexpected than the election of John-Paul II, but it is as valid.”

“But what about those who claim the woman is the Antichrist?” shouted a man with a strong Alabama accent.

“They are not part of the Roman Catholic Church,” answered Cardinal Cadini smoothly. “It isn’t my place to comment on them, except to say that they do not reflect the Church’s position.” He raised his voice. “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but you will have to save your questions for tomorrow. Trevor, Cardinal Stevenson of Melbourne will be here.” He ignored the last, persistent rush of questions. “Thank you very much for your attention.”

* * *

He could not sleep and he was unable to pray. Since midnight he had been in the grip of his unadmitted gift. Cardinal Mendosa lay on his bed, every atom of his being fixed on the vision that enveloped him. There was light, so much light, so intense that it ought to have hurt his eyes, though it did not. In that light was Zhuang Renxin; her kind, sensible face was turned toward him. She was speaking, but no words came. There was, instead, a distant, soft, tremendous sound, more exalted than singing. She wore the Papal ring on her thumb, and though she extended her hand, she would not permit him to kiss the ring.

Somewhere not far away a clock chimed the quarter hour and was echoed by bells. Cardinal Mendosa heard them but paid no heed. The vision claimed him as it had never done before. He was caught up wholly, engulfed in light. He watched the glowing nimbus radiating from Zhuang Renxin and longed for words to express his reverence and awe; none seemed adequate.

As he watched, Zhuang Renxin held out her hand again, not to him, but to figures beyond the light. The light spread. The walls of Saint Peter’s crumbled but not into ruin—an edifice of light took its place, more glorious than jewels and gold could ever be. With an effort, Cardinal Mendosa remembered to breathe. Zhuang Renxin stood in the center of that refulgence and nodded once in approval.

Then Cardinal Mendosa stumbled and fell; an instant later, Zhuang Renxin disappeared.

He came to himself suddenly, gasping, one arm flailing against his sheets.

After a moment, Cardinal Mendosa lay back, his breath still ragged in his throat, his body tingling. He pressed his lips closed, as if he feared he might cry out. Not since he was a boy and had told Father Aloysius about the murdered Catholic President he had seen in his mind, had he talked about his visions; not to his priest, not to his family or anyone else. For years he had kept it all to himself. But never had he experienced anything as vast, as real as what had just transpired. He made himself be still. He didn’t want to blow it now. I’d be a fool to talk about this, he cautioned himself. Worse than that. They’d claim I’d gone off my rocker, and they’d use it against Zhuang. Everything I’ve worked for would be jeopardized if I start blabbing now.

Very carefully, as if he were recovering from a serious illness, he got out of bed. He felt light-headed, almost tipsy. “This’ll never do,” he muttered to the darkness, and hoped that neither Father Viernes nor Father Gilbert were awake. Had he made any noise that might alert the two junior members of his staff? Bishop Peverston kept to his own quarters at night, and therefore would not be aware of any disturbances. He pulled on his robe and wandered toward his bathroom. “What I need,” he announced to the air, “is a long, hot tub. It was good enough for the old Romans; it’s good enough for me.”

By the time he had filled his bath, he heard the clock chime the half hour. “Now, if I only knew the rest,” he confided to the walls of the bathroom as he put his robe and pyjamas aside. He could always return to his bedroom and look at the clock on the east wall, or his watch on his nightstand, but neither notion seemed practical. He slid into the tub and reached for the soap and brush.

It was almost four in the morning when he at last climbed out of the bath and toweled himself off. Slowly he put on his pyjamas again, the thin cotton feeling heavy and stiff, as if made of poster board. He had shaken off most of his vision; the jitteriness had left him without sinking him into mild depression, as had so often happened in the past. He went to the mirror and inspected his chin. No point in shaving now, he decided. His beard could wait a couple more hours. He compromised by brushing his teeth, then picked up his robe and toddled back to his bedroom.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” he said as he lay down once more, not at all certain whom he addressed. “I won’t get mad at that old fart Jung, and you won’t give me any more visions tonight, okay?”

He drifted back to sleep with occasional flashes of Zhuang’s face suffused with light.

* * *

Rufus Greene hung up the telephone and sat ruminating for several minutes. Outside the first of London’s morning rush was thrumming through the streets, but in Mister Greene’s elegant condominium there was only the sound of the Georgian mantle clock to distract him. Finally he picked up a pencil and made a few cryptic notes to himself before dialing a number in Tennessee. He rang through over the answering machine, then waited while Reverend Williamson woke.

“This better be important,” snarled a husky voice.

“It’s me, Reverend,” said Greene in his most deferential manner. “I am sorry to call you so early but it is urgent.”

“Greene.” There was hesitation and the sound of blankets moving. “All right. What’s the matter?”

“You heard that they’ve set the date for the coronation?” he asked, knowing the answer already.

“August 15th.” Reverend Williamson sounded annoyed. “Is that all this is about?”

“No, it’s not,” said Greene. “I had a conversation with…one of our gentlemen from the Vatican. His report is not encouraging. There is growing dissatisfaction in the ranks, but it appears there is no solid core of resistance, as we had hoped. So I would like your permission to engage Clancy McEllton to resolve the matter for us.”

“Without Vatican help?” Reverend Williamson asked, sounding more awake. “Do you want to do this independently?”

“Yes,” said Greene, his eyes blank. “I am afraid we will need—”

“I don’t like it,” Reverend Williamson interrupted. “We agreed we’d do this with Vatican participation. That way we’d keep our plausible deniability. If we don’t have that, how are we going to—”

“Reverend Williamson,” said Greene quietly, “I don’t think you want me to answer that, do you?”

There was a longer pause from Tennessee. “No. I guess not.” He cleared his throat. “But you better get someone from the Vatican to cover your ass, or we might have to answer for all kinds of shit. You hear me, Greene?”

“Yes, Reverend Williamson,” said Greene, his tone resigned. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Damn right,” said Reverend Williamson. “You know there’s a Cardinal who’s willing to give you the go-ahead. You have Clancy McEllton get ahold of his uncle again. I bet he can pick up leads that way.”

“His uncle has taken a vow of silence, he tells me. I don’t think we can learn much more from that source, Reverend.” He coughed diplomatically. The traffic outside snarled once, and banged. Greene cocked his head, listening for the two-toned sirens. There were none. Sirens always made him nervous. “I haven’t had any more contact with the gentleman from the Vatican. I have left occasional messages, but there has been no direct response. It’s too bad; I was hoping we might have heard something but so far, nothing. Under the circumstances, I don’t think we should put too much stock in the gentleman’s complaints.”

“Chickenshit pansies, every one of them. Greene, tell me something I want to hear.” His voice was stern, accepting no excuses.

“Clancy McEllton’s willing to work for us. He has quoted a reasonable fee, given the difficulties of the assignment. I doubt we could find anyone more competent on such short notice.” Greene was growing distressed and this turned his words to a whine. “I believe we ought to proceed before the 15th. Once they make her Pope, she’s the head of the Vatican state as well as head of the Catholic Church. That makes it a bigger problem, having her recognized officially. It isn’t a good idea to wait much longer. We want to make our point before the coronation takes place. Afterward the damage will have been done. Right now we can still interrupt the process, I’m convinced that—”

“For Chrissake, Greene, watch what you’re saying.” Reverend Williamson was more awake now, and more acerbic. “You don’t know who’s listening or what they could make of this. Jesus! You’re acting like a fucking amateur.” The American evangelist took a deep breath. “Now you listen to me, and you listen good. I want a report from you by noon, your time, tomorrow. I want to hear that you’ve made some progress with those Vatican cunts, and I don’t want to hear any more bullshit about us going on without a Cardinal to take the fall. You call back those faggots until one of them talks to you. They’ll have to take the heat for this. If anyone points a finger about her after it’s over, it ain’t gonna be at us, that’s for fucking certain. We have to get that Vatican support or we’re not going to be able to move. Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”

Greene sighed, not quite audibly. “Yes, sir.” There was a distant siren now. Perhaps the accident was serious after all.

“One of those Cardinals has to come in with us and be the decoy. We won’t be able to get close enough without that, and we won’t have any way to keep out of the flak afterward unless there’s a Cardinal or two standing around with powder burns on his hands. You got that, Greene?”

“No action without a Cardinal for cover,” said Greene dutifully.

“Exactly, Mister Greene,” said Reverend Williamson, and hung up.

As he put his receiver back onto the telephone cradle, Greene bit his lower lip, either in worry or concentration.

Chapter 19

“But, Your Holiness,” protested Bishop Flanders, who had been given the task of coordinating the Coronation Mass, “it is essential that you wear the tiara at all times.” He had got up from the couch in the small sitting room of the quarters she had been assigned. There were nuns billeted on both sides of her, and a Swiss Guard in the hall, to prevent any sort of scandal. There was also an unobtrusive security camera in the northwest corner of the room.

“Do not call me Your Holiness,” said Zhuang, motioning to Willie Foot to assist her. “If you insist on such a name, it must wait until the ceremony is concluded.”

“If you wish,” Bishop Flanders muttered, glancing at Willie Foot as the journalist translated.

She studied Bishop Flanders’ face, aware of his disapprobation. “I do not like the tiara. It is heavy and ostentatious. If you must put it on my head, then take it off as soon as possible.”

Bishop Flanders had been a bad-tempered little boy and at his confirmation had sworn to conquer his occasional rages, as proof of his worthiness and piety. While he was young the task was often too much for him. For most of his twenty-nine years since ordination he had been able to rise above his fits of anger. Now he was sorely tested. His blocky face reddened. “If you are to be Pope, you must wear the tiara.”

“Why?” she asked in English, then continued in Chinese, pausing occasionally to allow Willie to catch up with her. “I have been reading your texts and I see no reference to any tiara ever worn by Jesus. I do not recall anything he said that indicated he wanted one, or required his followers to wear one, or to aspire to wear one. The only crown I recall was the one made of thorns, which was intended as a disgrace, or so I am told. Therefore it is not because of what Jesus taught that the tiara is worn, but because of the rules established by the Church in a display of importance and power. For the sake of tradition you may place it on my head if you must, but then you will remove it, or I will take it off myself.”

“He’s not going to like that last bit,” Willie warned Zhuang in Chinese before he translated it for Bishop Flanders.

“That is unfortunate,” said Zhuang with no sign of relenting.

“The tiara is necessary,” Bishop Flanders persisted. He tried to console himself with the reflection that Cardinal Mendosa was back in Houston for the week and not here to plague him.

Zhuang sighed and stared out the window; she could just make out part of Saint Peter’s dome. “It is not respectful for me to wear such…adornment. You in the Church may have good reason for your finery, although I notice that many of the Cardinals prefer secular garments most of the time. You have set yourselves apart from your people through such display, which distinguishes you more than it honors your Jesus. Had I been one of you, I might sense the need you do, and seek to—” She stopped, for she had castigated Bishop Flanders about privilege and abuse of power only two days before.

Willie waited, anticipating another lecture, then realized that she was not going to continue. “What is it, Worthy Magistrate?”

She shook her head. “Nothing important,” she answered. “Mendosa cautioned me, and I realize I should have heeded him more closely than I did.” She turned away from the window. “It is very disturbing, this demand for luxury. I suppose I should be satisfied with the concessions I have been granted, but I am not.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Willie with an understanding smile.

“I had not anticipated the pressure that would be put on me. I’ve had some protection from it. And I admit that I miss Mendosa. This morning I had another dispute with Cardinal Fiorivi about Father Zirhendakru. The rest of the Cardinals would prefer he translate for me because he is a priest. But I still prefer you, Willie, because you are not.” She chose a simple armchair and sat down, indicating Bishop Flanders as she did. “Tell that officious martinet that he cannot bully me. It is not acceptable to me to wear the tiara beyond the actual crowning. I will consent to wear the tiara for the crucial parts of the ceremony, but after that it must be removed.”

Willie did as he as told, adding, “I don’t think she’s going to change her mind, Bishop.”

“I suppose not,” said Bishop Flanders, his voice surly. Reluctantly he assigned himself ten minutes of extra prayers for his behavior; his temper had very nearly got the better of him. “But it will not be easy to explain her decision to the faithful.”

“An example of humility, perhaps?” Willie grinned. “I think explaining Zhuang is the least of your difficulties.”

Bishop Flanders glowered at Willie, wishing that the British journalist had remained Catholic so he could have the pleasure of excommunicating him. “You’re not amusing, Foot.”

“Sorry,” Willie responded with stunning insincerity, adding, “I stay where Magistrate Zhuang requires me. I am at her service.”

Bishop Flanders determined to ignore the interloper. “In that case, increase your magnanimity. I have to announce to the Curia what name the Pope will take. This is an irregular request, but it is in response to a most irregular situation. It is essential that her name be…appropriate. You have explained that to her, haven’t you? Or does she have some objection to that as well?”

“Yes,” said Willie. “Cardinal Mendosa had discussed that with her at length. They settled on one before he left.” He saw Bishop Flanders wince at the mention of Cardinal Mendosa. “And they have arrived at a name I believe all of you will find wholly unexceptionable.” He paused to relay to Zhuang what they were saying, and then remarked, “Magistrate Zhuang has chosen the name An. As in the mother of the Virgin Mary and the woman in the Temple.” He gave this a second or two to sink in. “She is staying with the Latin form, instead of using the Judean Hannah. That’s An. Just one n: a-n.”

Bishop Flanders was rigid with conflicting emotions. Finally he asked “How much of this was Cardinal Mendosa’s idea?” He knew he had erred again, and added another ten minutes of prayers to his assignment.

“Cardinal Mendosa merely advised her. He told her of the holy women in the New Testament and permitted her to choose.” Willie relished the scowl of disapproval that marked Bishop Flander’s features. “It really is all he’s entitled to do.”

“At least he grasps that much,” Bishop Flanders said grudgingly.

Willie said nothing but there was a mischievous look in his eyes. He translated for Zhuang. “I think he won’t object to the name you’ve chosen. He doesn’t have to know it has special meaning in Chinese.”

“That priest they want to take your place could tell him,” she said with a trace of concern. “If they know about the Chinese meaning, might they not protest?”

“Only if they understand in which context you intend an, and they don’t. If they should ask, tell them it is short for an-pu chui-pan. Father Zirhendakru will tell them that means to go step by step or carry out a sequence of duties. How can they object to that? You need not say that you intend an-liu instead, which are secrets against doctrine. Let them assume what they wish.” It was difficult to find synonyms for the two versions of an he used, but he managed it as best he could.

“I dislike clandestine things,” she said, using an again, in an-chung; she smiled at her own pun.

“I suspect you dislike the constraints of the Church rather more,” said Willie, then addressed Bishop Flanders, who was getting restive. “I would recommend you tell Father Zirhendakru that Magistrate Zhuang has also chosen An for its significance in Chinese. The phrase is an-pu chiu-pan, and I am sure he can provide an adequate translation.

“I’ll ask you to write that down for me,” said Bishop Flanders stiffly.

“Of course,” said Willie, smiling broadly. “In English transliteration or in Chinese characters?”

Bishop Flanders decided he had to leave at once if he did not want to spend the entire night on his knees.

* * *

Even for Texas it was hot. The bloated sun sizzled overhead, and the air hung sodden beneath. In front of the Cathedral of the Four Evangelists the members of the press sweated as they faced Charles, Cardinal Mendosa, the weather making them snappish.

“The Papal coronation is next week,” said the man from INS, his perfectly cut hair limp on his brow. “Do you expect any difficulties?”

“Of course I expect difficulties,” said Cardinal Mendosa, turning slightly to indicate the riot damage to the cathedral. He was in secular dress, his dark grey suit of tropical weight wool, his shirt of fine linen, his tie dark burgundy silk. Instead of his cowboy boots, he wore black Italian loafers. “I’d be a fool not to expect them. This whole election has been filled with difficulties, from the very beginning.”

“In what ways?” asked a youngster from Fort Worth.

Cardinal Mendosa gave him a long, tolerant look. “How many times has a Chinese woman been elected Pope?”

A few of the newspeople laughed, but the sound was polite and half-hearted. One or two of the reporters shook their heads, too aggravated by heat and inconvenience to indulge the Cardinal.

“You return to Rome tomorrow?” The question came from the CBS correspondent assigned to Austin. He held up a press release that had been given out earlier. “It says you’re leaving at five in the morning.”

“Yes.” Cardinal Mendosa was not in the mood for obvious questions.

The CBS correspondent was not through. “You’ve had more direct contact with the incoming Pope than any other Cardinal. What is your opinion of her?”

“My opinion is not important,” said Cardinal Mendosa curtly. “She has been chosen by the Holy Spirit to lead the Church, and no man’s opinion matters in the face of that fact.”

“But,” protested a well-groomed woman from the St. Louis Dispatch-Enterprise, “you’ve spent time with her, more than any of the other Cardinals. You must have an opinion of her.”

Cardinal Mendosa sighed, wishing he could avoid an answer. “You mean, what is my assessment of her personally? That’s not appropriate for me to discuss. Why must you always reduce it to personalities?” he asked, not expecting an answer. He ignored a volley of questions in the same vein, choosing his words with great care. “All right, let’s get it over with. For the record, Zhuang Renxin is a very capable woman, concerned with justice and fairness. Her record as a Magistrate is laudable. I have an abiding respect for her, and a profound regard for her abilities.”

“Do you like her?” demanded the anchorwoman from the local newsteam.

“I don’t think that has any bearing on the situation,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “The Papacy isn’t a popularity contest.” He bit back a joke about how unpopular Zhuang’s election was.

“Do you think she’ll make a good Pope?” asked a reporter from Atlanta.

“I doesn’t matter what I think: the Holy Spirit thinks she will.” Cardinal Mendosa felt sweat on the back of his neck and forehead, and wished the cameras were not on him, so he could swab it away. He could not afford to do anything that would make him appear nervous or uncertain.

The handsome African-American anchorman for Turner-Marshall raised his voice over the babble. “What about the threat she poses to the Church?”

“Because of Zhuang?” Cardinal Mendosa asked. “Is that what you’re asking about?”

Several newspeople seconded the question.

“I deplore attacks on any religion: Catholic, Protestant, Moslem, Jewish, Hindu, Taoist, or any of the others.” He planted his feet more firmly on the wide, shallow step. “To those people who stormed this cathedral, I say that they have erred. Their intentions may have been excellent, but what they did was inexcusable. I would say that if any house of worship was treated the way Four Evangelists has been treated. Jesus spoke against violence, and as His follower, I cannot condone violence of any sort.”

“Do you expect the police to find the ones behind it?” shouted a reporter from New Orleans.

“If it is possible, I suppose they will. If it isn’t, then they won’t. I can’t speak for the police.” Cardinal Mendosa had been baited on this subject before and was growing tired of it.

“Have you given any instructions to Catholics about the Chinese woman?” called out a red-faced reporter from Boston’s PBS newsmagazine. “Cardinal Bradeston has issued instructions for—”

“Cardinal Bradeston’s op-ed piece was very well-presented and timely,” Cardinal Mendosa interrupted. “And given current circumstances in New England, I believe he has done the wisest thing for his flock. But Texas and the Southwest are not Boston. The demographics are different, the social issues are different, and the traditions are different. I wholly approve of what he has done, but I would not do the same thing here. Op-ed won’t cut it in Texas. I doubt it would be successful.” He wanted a shower and a change of clothes. He hated the way his shirt was sticking to his back. Giving this news conference on the steps of the cathedral might not have been a bad idea, but three-thirty in the afternoon was the wrong time, whether or not they made the early news.

“What instructions do you have for Catholics about the new Pope?” called out a reporter from Mexico City.

Once again Cardinal Mendosa stopped himself from giving a sharp answer. “Every Catholic knows the authority of the Pope. It is no different for Zhuang than it is for any other Pope. She is the choice of the Holy Spirit. As such, she is due the reverence and respect accorded to the Pope, no matter how much unlike our previous Popes she may be.” He hesitated, then decided what the hell and went on. “I know there are those of you who call themselves Christians, who have accused Zhuang of being a tool of Satan, the Whore of Babylon, the Antichrist, and other, less flattering things. Those who make such accusations speak without knowledge; they sow doubt and dissention and confusion, which is not Christian of them. These are people who wrap themselves in the Testaments for the purposes of serving their own ends. They are distressed that God has chosen a woman to lead them, and that the woman is not of their race, nor their faith, and they intend to exploit the fear and novelty of her election in order to impugn her and the Roman Catholic Church. But what better way can God show that we are all His children, or remind us of Jesus’ new commandment, that we love one another, than to raise such a woman as Zhuang Renxin to the Papacy? Before any Christian—Catholic or Protestant—decides that this Chinese woman must be the tool of the Devil, let me suggest that he or she reread Scripture, and remember that Jesus would not cast the first stone. If He would not, how dare anyone calling himself or herself a Christian do so?” That ought to put Reverend Williamson and his ilk in their place, thought Cardinal Mendosa as he finished.

“Cardinal Mendosa!” The reporter from the Los Angeles Times had his hand up and waving. “How much resistance do you expect from Catholics?”

“I don’t know,” answered Cardinal Mendosa at once. “I would hope there would be very little, but that is clearly unlikely.”

One of the local reporters came a step closer. “What about Father Cook? You stated that you would not let his death be forgotten.”

“Yes. And I won’t,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Father Cook was the victim of precisely the kind of intolerance we have been discussing. His injuries ought never to have happened. I mourn his passing, and I have already arranged a memorial for him within the cathedral.”

“After what happened to Father Cook, aren’t you scared? Are you afraid someone might try to kill you, too?” shouted the AP&T stringer.

“Afraid?” Cardinal Mendosa regarded the newsman evenly. “I am a devout Christian, Mister Miller, and my own death is the least of my concerns.”

Miller persisted. “Okay, but that doesn’t mean you’re making a target of yourself, does it?”

“I am no more a target now than I ever was,” said Cardinal Mendosa, fighting down the images of his dreams. He lifted his hands. “Your ten minutes are almost up.”

“Cardinal Mendosa!” The chorus was ragged and determined.

“Wentworth from Dallas, and then Collins from Kansas City,” said Cardinal Mendosa, pointing to the two newspeople. “Go.”

“Cardinal Mendosa,” said Sally Wentworth as she held up her minirecorder, “four European news services have reported active conspiracies against the new Pope, and the police have confirmed two of them. Can you comment on this?”

“If Interpol and the Eurocops have uncovered groups whom they are convinced have been plotting against Zhuang, then I assume they know what they’re talking about. They aren’t the kinds who cry wolf. But I have to add that I have no direct knowledge of the situation, and I won’t speculate. I have every confidence in Interpol, Vatican security and the EECPA to deal with any and all threats to Zhuang’s safety.” This last was for diplomacy, not conviction. He had reported to Dmitri Karodin only the day before that Zhuang’s protection seemed inadequate, and he was not convinced that all necessary measures were being taken to guard her. He had hated how he felt, revealing that to the Russian.

Niles Collins nodded as Cardinal Mendosa directed his gaze to him. “I was wondering, Your Eminence, if you have any reason to believe that the College of Cardinals was influenced or manipulated in the election of this Pope? I know I’ve asked you this before, but the rumors haven’t—”

Cardinal Mendosa took a deep breath. “You’re right; I have answered this question before. And I’ll reiterate my answer. If some group was trying to influence the College of Cardinals, it did so without detection, without a single hint of its presence or its methods, and succeeded so thoroughly that every single Cardinal specified the same Chinese name—in Chinese, I might remind you—not once but twice. Frankly, I find it more convincing that this was the manifestation of the will of the Holy Spirit than the result of a conspiracy, no matter how subtle and clever.” He took one last question. “Hill. Go ahead.”

Tom Hill from Norman, Oklahoma, looked startled at this recognition. “Cardinal Mendosa,” he said, recovering quickly. “What do you plan to do once this new Pope is in office?”

“Whatever Zhuang, as Pope, wants me to do,” said Cardinal Mendosa, and went on to explain. “I was fortunate enough to be the one to meet her first. Perhaps as a result of that Her Holiness has been kind enough to trust me. I consider this a singular honor. As a Cardinal, I have an obligation to assist and advise her in any way she deems fitting. Her Holiness has not yet informed me what the way is to be.” He made a point of looking at his watch. “I’m afraid the time is up.”

There was another belligerent clamor of questions, but Cardinal Mendosa did not relent. He started back up the steps, and was annoyed when a number of the newspeople hurried to cut him off.

“Just one more, Your Eminence,” insisted a reporter from San Antonio.

“I have to be on a plane in a matter of hours, and there is a great deal of work I must finish before then,” said Cardinal Mendosa, hoping that someone from the cathedral staff would break this up. “I can’t spare much time. I made that clear when I agreed to answer questions this afternoon.”

“Do you think the Church can survive the Chinese woman’s Papacy?”

Cardinal Mendosa crossed his arms. “We’ve survived liars and villains and debauched atheists as Pope. We have endured rivalries and wars and assassinations and heresies. There have been Popes who were sexually perverted, incestuous, sadistic, dissipated, monomaniacal, corrupt, and insane. If none of these things has ruined us, I doubt one honorable and upright Chinese widow can destroy us.”

“Cardinal Mendosa! Cardinal Mendosa!” came the insistent shout.

This time he would not permit them to detain him, but made his way directly to the boarded-up doors of the cathedral.

* * *

Cardinal van Hooven was the host that afternoon, and although he feared the meeting would do little good, he was resigned to making the effort. Two dozen Cardinals were expected, so he had taken over one of the reading rooms of the library for the occasion. His assistant, Brother Crispino, had arranged the catering; but Cardinal van Hooven was not completely satisfied that the Franciscan’s arrangements would be adequate for the event, so he had arrived a little early to go over the plans with his staff.

“It might be better if you bring in another four or five of the upholstered chairs,” the Dutch Cardinal said to Carlo Urbi, who was in charge of preparations. “The comfortable wing-back ones. I don’t think we can ask the Cardinals to use wooden chairs.”

“Of course, Eminence,” said Carlo, implying a bow without actually executing one. He was the head of a large number of laity who staffed various functions of the Vatican, many of them sporting elaborate Papal titles.

“And it appears to me that the refreshments are not quite as generous as I would like. A wider selection of sweet biscuits would be welcome, and perhaps a few chocolate truffles, especially the ones flavored with Chambord. I leave it to your good taste to make the choices. Brother Crispino is an admirable assistant, but he tends to plan on a monk’s scale, and that will not do for this meeting. I am certain you appreciate my meaning.” Behind his thick lenses his blue eyes were as candid as a baby’s.

“I will attend to it at once, Eminence,” Carlo promised him.

“I’m sure you’ll do very well. And while you’re at it, I think it might be best to prepare some tea and coffee as well as wine, for the Asian Cardinals prefer tea, as you recall.” He took care not to make this seem to be a reprimand. “With everything that is going on, I am astonished you can manage as well as you do.”

“You are kind to tell me so, Eminence,” said Carlo, lowering his eyes in a respectful way.

“Nothing of the sort,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “I would be a poor manager if I was not aware of the superior work my staff is doing, and for this occasion, you are my staff.” He looked about the library once more. “I’ll leave this in your capable hands. And I will return in ten minutes, just ahead of the rest. If you have anything you require of me, phone my quarters and I’ll speak to you at once.” There was no particular reason for him to leave, but he was aware that his presence might seem judgmental to Carlo Urbi’s assistants. There was no difficulty in getting out of range for a time while his instructions were carried out. “If anyone arrives early, tell them I will be back shortly.”

“Of course, Eminence,” said Carlo, and waited until Cardinal van Hooven was out of the room to issue his orders to the rest of his staff.

Cardinal van Hooven reached his quarters less than two minutes later, and was surprised to find that Brother Crispino was not there. After looking into his sitting room, he frowned, wondering where the monk could be. He called out once and when he was not answered, he attempted to dismiss his questions from his mind, and went to review the latest information from Antwerp where there had been a riot the day before.

He was just finishing that report when Brother Gilpin arrived. “Eminence,” he said, blinking as if against sudden light.

“Brother Gilpin,” said Cardinal van Hooven as he put down the report. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Nothing of the kind, Eminence,” said Brother Gilpin.

Cardinal van Hooven was about to dismiss Brother Gilpin when it occurred to him to ask, “Have you seen Brother Crispino?”

“Brother Crispino?” Brother Gilpin repeated as if he did not know the word; he recovered quickly. “Not recently, no. An hour ago, a little more. He was just leaving here on an errand. He was going to the library to speak with Carlo Urbi about the refreshments for this afternoon. He ought to be there—”

“He has been there and gone,” said Cardinal van Hooven, wondering if Brother Crispino had taken it into his head to do more penance that afternoon; lately the Franciscan had been spending long hours in prayer and meditation as the time of Zhuang’s coronation grew near. “Has Father Maius mentioned Brother Crispino to you?” Father Maius, the chief of the Cardinal’s staff, was recovering from cataract surgery and had not been able to do much the last two weeks.

“Father Maius said nothing about Brother Crispino, not today,” said Brother Gilpin, who seemed more puzzled than before.

“Did either Brother Crispino or Father Maius mention any engagements to you?” Cardinal van Hooven asked. “With the coronation so soon, there are many things he might need to do.”

“Yes,” said Brother Gilpin, seizing on the remark. “Of course, you’re right. Brother Crispino must have another chore to do before he returns. He must have overlooked informing me. If he said anything to Father Maius, well.…” He indicated the room as a way to change the subject. “I’ll attend to things here, if you must attend the meeting with the…new Pope.”

“Her Holiness,” Cardinal van Hooven corrected gently. “You might as well get used to saying it.”

“Her Holiness,” Brother Gilpin repeated dutifully, though his throat pinched and his breath did not have enough air in it.

Cardinal van Hooven indicated his approval. “In a week or two it will seem quite natural. Practice it a few times and you will not find it too difficult to say.” He started toward the door. “I will be with the Cardinals in the library. Please don’t disturb me unless it is essential.”

“I won’t,” Brother Gilpin assured him, glad not to have to speak of Zhuang any longer.

“Thank you,” said Cardinal van Hooven. He left his quarters and retraced his path to the library, his attention already on the problems that had to be discussed during the afternoon.

As he reached the library, he found Cardinal Cadini and Cardinal Tayibha already there. Cardinal Cadini was dressed secularly and casually; Cardinal Tayibha wore clerical garb. The two were engrossed in a discussion about chocolate.

“I prefer a trace of bitterness, just the merest trace,” said Cardinal Cadini. “Otherwise the taste can be too overwhelming. I think it is the bitterness that makes the richness so satisfying.” His smile was delighted, and he indicated the tray of truffles Carlo Urbi had just set out. “If we cannot resolve our differences, at least we can enjoy comparing examples.”

“Certainly,” said Cardinal Tayibha, apparently unsure how to take Cardinal Cadini’s remarks. “Those are all bittersweet, aren’t they?”

“Yes, on the outside, but those first two rows have sweet fillings.” said Cardinal Cadini, looking up as Cardinal van Hooven approached. “There you are. I was beginning to think that everyone else might have decided to avoid this meeting. Most aren’t very pleased about it.”

“Most haven’t been pleased since we elected Zhuang,” said Cardinal van Hooven with tremendous neutrality.

“And Zhuang? She’ll be here, too?” asked Cardinal Tayibha.

“She’ll come a little later. Right now she’s closeted with Willie Foot about her first address to the people after her coronation. She wants to be certain she has everything right. She says she does not want to be misunderstood by anyone.” Cardinal van Hooven glanced at the table. “I see that Carlo has done his usual splendid job.”

“That he has,” said Cardinal Cadini, with an appreciative twinkle. “Not that I ought to have any of it, but.…” His shrug was philosophical. “At my age, there are not many pleasures left, and I like to make the most out of the few that remain.”

“Do you say such things to your physician?” asked Cardinal Tayibha, doing his unsuccessful best to conceal his shock.

“Naturally. If I did not, they would be more concerned than they are.” He looked back at Cardinal van Hooven. “You should be the one we speak to. Do you think that bittersweet chocolate is better than the rest? You Dutch are famous for your chocolates.”

Cardinal van Hooven shrugged. “I never really developed an opinion. I prefer gelato, myself.”

Cardinal Cadini laughed good-naturedly. “Very deft,” he approved, then turned to a more serious matter. “What about Cardinal Mendosa? Is he back yet?”

“Sometime this evening,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “I called Father Viernes earlier, to confirm the time he left Houston. The plane was delayed over an hour.”

“That must have delighted Charles,” said Cardinal Cadini with a wicked little smile. “I am pleased to hear he is returning. We need him with us.”

Cardinal Tayibha nodded emphatically. “It may be galling to some of the others, but Her Holiness relies on him, and without him she becomes apprehensive. We are not the only ones who take note of this. Many are aware of the…regard they have for one another, and they make assumptions.” He looked again at the lavish spread. “It is not wise for those of us in our position to have particular friendships.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s what’s going on,” said Cardinal Cadini. “They are friends, but there is nothing incorrect in that. They do not have a particular friendship, not the way you imply.” He looked toward the door as Cardinal Llanos and Cardinal Bakony came into the library. He inclined his head as a greeting and went on to Cardinal Tayibha, “It’s no great secret that Cardinal Mendosa likes women, but he is not one to compromise the Pope because she is a woman. He has too much feeling for her to do that.”

“How can you be sure?” Cardinal Tayibha persisted.

“Because Charles does not harm those he cares for,” said Cardinal Cadini, his small, bright eyes taking on an unexpected sternness.

Cardinal Tayibha made a gesture to indicate he would accept Cardinal Cadini’s judgment. “The people still have doubts about the two of them.”

“The people have doubts about everything concerning this woman,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “That is why we are having this meeting.”

“Yes. I have many reservations about her, but I do not dispute the need for agreement. We have many questions yet to answer.” Cardinal Tayibha did not protest his mild reprimand. “I pray that we all receive wisdom from what we do here.”

“May God hear your prayer,” said Cardinal Cadini before going to greet Cardinal Sclamonde, who hesitated in the doorway, reluctant to come in.

Cardinal Nkomo and Cardinal Durand arrived next, and Carlo Urbi decided it was time to begin serving coffee and tea and wine. By the time Cardinal Mnientek, Cardinal Hauptberger, Cardinal Gemme, and Cardinal Sinclair joined them, the staff was busy filling cups and glasses and passing trays of sweets.

“I must say,” remarked Cardinal O’Higgins as he entered the library behind Cardinal Jung, “if we have to deal with so unpleasant a dilemma as our present one, this is the way to do it.”

“You make light of a tragedy,” said Cardinal Jung in his most portentous accents. “I cannot help but fear that the direst predictions of our enemies will prove minor compared to what we will have to endure at the hands of this foreign woman.”

Cardinal Cadini had heard Cardinal Jung’s orotund tone from across the room. He hastened over to the condemning Swiss and offered him a cup of coffee. “Unless you prefer the wine? There is an excellent Pinot Grigio and a very nice shooting sherry,” he recommended. “The pastry is very light except for the Napoleons. And the truffles are superb.”

This did not mollify Cardinal Jung, who shook his head heavily. “I am nearly in accord with those who say that it is our love of indulgence and excess that has brought us to this terrible state. We are reaping the harvest of our luxury and dissipation.”

Cardinal Cadini did not quite laugh, but he could not suppress a smile as he said, “Nevertheless, it is a shame to let such excellent fare go to waste now we have served it. If you are concerned, we can distribute what is left over to the prisons. Or you can fast for a day or two in compensation. That might be sensible for us both; my physician is always encouraging me to fast. But in the meantime, Cardinal van Hooven would be offended if you did not taste anything at all.”

“I find your flippancy distasteful,” said Cardinal Jung. “This is not the occasion for humor or celebration, but mourning.”

“No, of course not celebration,” said Cardinal Cadini, clearly unconvinced. He sighed once as Cardinal Jung surged away from him.

“There is nothing to do about him,” said Cardinal van Hooven as he came up beside Cardinal Cadini.

“Possibly. No one is past praying for,” corrected Cardinal Cadini gently. “Still, I suspect His Jungian Eminence is a harder case than most.” He swung around as Cardinal Montebranco came through the door. “Who hasn’t arrived yet?” he asked Cardinal van Hooven.

“Tsukamara and Tondocello,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “I won’t be surprised if Cardinal Tondocello doesn’t come. He’s not feeling very well; the stress makes his kidneys worse, if that’s possible.”

“Poor man,” said Cardinal Cadini with sympathy.

“Indeed,” said Cardinal van Hooven, then turned as Carlo Urbi tapped him on the shoulder. “Yes? What is it?”

“Pardon, Eminence, but we have a request from Cardinal Tayibha for China tea.” He looked uncomfortable, which was rare for him. “This is very awkward. I would rather save the tea, but.… We have some for the woman, but if you think it would be all right.…”

“How much do you have?” asked Cardinal van Hooven.

“Oh, the quantity is no problem. But would it be proper to serve it to Cardinal Tayibha before it is served to the Chinese woman? Perhaps if I made some fresh.…”

“I am certain Her Holiness would not consider it improper of you to serve Cardinal Tayibha first,” said Cardinal van Hooven with great patience. “In fact, she might well insist upon it.”

Carlo made another one of his not-quite-bows. “Thank you, Eminence,” he said and withdrew at once.

“Sometimes I marvel that anything can get done around here,” said Cardinal Cadini as he watched the retreating figure of Carlo Urbi. “We’ve become entirely too hide-bound, my friend. When the chief caterer needs permission to serve a cup of tea, things have gone too far. The more I think about it, the more I believe it is a good thing that Zhuang is here.”

Cardinal van Hooven considered his answer. “There are many reasons to be thankful that we have been able to bring her to Rome.”

“How very diplomatic,” said Cardinal Cadini, then noticed that Cardinal Gemme was scowling at Cardinal O’Higgins. “I suppose I’d better break that up before it turns ugly.”

“I would appreciate it,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “The last thing we need is more of us taking sides. Her Holiness is supposed to be here in ten minutes, and we need to achieve reasonable accord by then. If those two can’t be calmed down, who knows what kind of reception she’ll have?”

Cardinal Cadini offered Cardinal van Hooven a jaunty salute. “My pleasure, Piet,” he said, and sauntered off toward the elegant Cardinal Gemme, smiling affably at everyone he saw.

Cardinal van Hooven took advantage of the moment to leave the library to relieve himself; it was going to be a long afternoon and he did not want to miss any of the meeting. As he was washing his hands, Cardinal Llanos came into the lavatory.

“It’s a good thing you’re doing this, Eminence,” said the Cardinal from Managua. “So few of us are as sensible.”

“You’re very gracious to say so,” Cardinal van Hooven responded; in the mirror over the sink his thick glasses made his eyes appear to be suspended in front of his face.

“I thought I ought to warn you,” Cardinal Llanos went on in the same tone. “I received a note today that said Zhuang would not leave this meeting alive.”

“Oh?” Cardinal van Hooven stopped in the act of drying his hands.

“Yes. It was unsigned, of course.” He stepped into the cubicle protecting the urinal.

“Of course,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “But we have all heard of threats against her.”

Cardinal Llanos did not answer until he had left the cubicle. “That may be. But this one came from inside the Vatican. I thought I should mention it to you for that reason.” He went to the sink. “You may want to take precautions.”

“Thank you, I already have.” He started to open the door, but decided to explain. “Half of Carlo’s staff are Vatican security.”

“Um.” Cardinal Llanos reached for the soap. “Let us hope they are sufficient.”

Cardinal van Hooven nodded once as he left the lavatory. As he hurried down the corridor toward the library he frowned, trying to interpret the message contained in Cardinal Llanos’ warning. Little as he wanted to recognize it, he had been anticipating trouble. Now it seemed that trouble might arrive.

Carlo Urbi was waiting for him as he came through the door. “Eminence, we have just received word that the Chinese woman and Mister Foot are waiting for permission to come here. What would you like me to tell them?”

“Tell them we require another ten minutes to prepare. Then I will welcome them both.” He was sharper with Carlo than he had intended to be, and he made himself add, “You are being very careful, and I appreciate all you are doing.”

“Thank you, Eminence,” said Carlo.

“There’s no reason for thanks, not under the circumstances, except mine to you.” Cardinal van Hooven favored Carlo with a sketched blessing before he made his way toward Cardinal Hauptberger, who stood near the tray of candied fruit.

“Are we about to start? They’re getting restive, aren’t they?” asked the tall Austrian. “At least Gemme isn’t holding forth any more.”

“No; the Dutch are about to do that,” said Cardinal van Hooven with a faint, fatalistic smile.

“Just as well,” said Cardinal Hauptberger. “Better sound a gong to get their attention.” He picked up another piece of candied pineapple.

“You’re probably right,” said Cardinal van Hooven as he continued to the center of the room; he stood there a few seconds, then coughed once. “Eminences,” he said, raising his voice a little. “Eminences, please.”

The babble faded slightly. A few other voices could be heard asking for quiet. Then there was silence.

“I am pleased,” said Cardinal van Hooven as the rest turned toward him, “that you were all willing to come to this meeting. It is one of our last opportunities to prepare ourselves for the onslaught of public reaction that is certain to follow the elevation of Zhuang Renxin, who will reign as Pope An.”

“You mean it is our last opportunity to choose a single position to express for the Vatican,” said Cardinal Bakony with undisguised scorn.

“No, that is precisely what I do not mean,” corrected Cardinal van Hooven with uncharacteristic heat. “That is the last thing we ought to do. We need to find the most flexible approach. You, Eminence,” he went on, singling out Cardinal Bakony because of his challenge, “cannot expect Hungarians to accept the same answers that Cardinal Sclamonde expects of the Belgians, or Cardinal O’Higgins expects of the Mexicans. We must determine a course that will not compromise anyone who—”

He was interrupted by the sound of a breaking cup.

As the gathered Cardinals stared, Jivin, Cardinal Tayibha, slipped from the chair where he sat, tea darkening the front of his black cassock.

Chapter 20

Every bell in Rome was ringing. The clamor was so enormous that even the steady drone of traffic was lost in it.

On the balcony overlooking Saint Peter’s Square, Zhuang Renxin, dressed in a plain white satin cassock, stood with her arms upraised as she faced the mass of humanity crammed into the piazza below. She wore no tiara but she carried a tall crucifix, her only concession to the symbols of Papal authority. Five Cardinals stood beside her, all in finery greater than hers. At her side, Willie Foot waited in a cut-away coat and striped trousers, for all the world like a groom on a wedding cake. In deference to Pope An, he carried his silk hat instead of wearing it.

"I am asked,” said Pope An in Chinese, pausing so that Willie and a dozen or so others could translate, “to pronounce God’s blessing on the city of Rome and the world. Because it is a tradition, I will do it, but reluctantly, for nowhere in the writings about Jesus does it say He ever pronounced such a blessing.” She looked over at Cardinal Cadini and saw his happy smile. “But it is recorded that Jesus said that we are all children of God, and so I offer blessing, in that spirit, on the city and the world.”

There was a mixture of applause and derisive whistles from the huge crowd below. A few people held up banners, most of them denouncing the new Pope and calling for another election.

“This could be very messy,” said Cardinal Sinclair softly. He was standing on Pope An’s immediate right; his ruddy, Irish complexion was sweat-beaded and plum-colored from the combination of heat and embarrassment.

“Patience, Eminence,” Cardinal Mendosa recommended. He was slightly behind Cardinal Sinclair, already uncomfortable in the cumbersome garments required for a Papal coronation. His feet were squeezed into satin shoes which made his arches ache. He longed for his new pair of cowboy boots.

“You know what she’s going to say, don’t you?” Cardinal Sinclair whispered fiercely.

“Not precisely,” said Cardinal Mendosa in his very best drawl. “You never know with Magistrate Zhuang.”

“It is customary to speak on the analects of Jesus at these times, or so I have been informed,” said Pope An. “I can find no reason to depart from that custom. And so I have selected from the records of Matthew and Luke, the seventh and eleventh chapters, respectively.” She waited while the translators caught up with her, little expression on her face.

“She’s not going to change the prayer, is she?” whispered Cardinal Belleau in dismay; he was between Pope An and Willie Foot.

“I doubt it,” Willie whispered back, keeping the rest of his thought—at least for the moment—to himself.

“I have been told I am expected to speak with you about your religion. I will do that.” Pope An took advantage of the translating lag to hand her tall crucifix to Cardinal Fiorivi. “I have been studying the things Jesus said in those texts, and I would like to comment on His admonition that you ask and it will be granted.”

“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” murmured Cardinal Sinclair, turning away as if to cough but actually to cross himself.

“I have had this explained to me, and have been instructed on the history of the translation, the various interpretations that have been made of these passages, and I have come to a conclusion it is my intention to explain to you.” Pope An at last looked down into Saint Peter’s Square. “For you have come here to seek, to ask, expecting an answer.”

Cardinal Montebranco had gone quite pale and he tried to catch Cardinal Tsukamara’s eye. He fervently hoped that the many television cameras trained on the balcony had not been able to register the repugnance that he was certain was clear on his face as it was in his heart.

Willie noticed how much the attention of the crowd had changed. He had seen these shifts before, and it made him uneasy. There was nothing he could do to warn Pope An without causing general alarm. He made himself concentrate on her words.

“I tell you this: to receive a thing, you must ask for it. You must name it to receive it. Otherwise you are prey to whims and influences that will turn you from your sincere desire because that desire is undefined. If you do not know what this desire is, then it cannot be given. It is not enough to profess a longing without understanding. Learn what you want to have, for only then can it be within your reach.” Pope An paused, her eyes still on the crowd below. She waited calmly while the translators strove to turn her Chinese into Italian, French, Spanish, German, Russian, Greek, Swedish, Arabic, Samoan and English. A few of the translators relied more on Willie Foot than the Pope herself.

At the edge of the enormous crowd, EECPA Captain Hafen shook his head and glanced over at Commander Bouleau. “We’re both going to see work from this,” he said to his Interpol counterpart.

“At least they’re listening,” said Commander Bouleau, indicating the crowd. “We can worry when they stop.”

“Or someone points a gun,” added Captain Hafen. “Although how we are to get through that mob and keep control, I can’t imagine.”

“Let the Swiss Guard worry about that. They’ve got men all through the crowd, and Vatican security has spotters on the roof. I’m worried about what happens when everyone tries to leave.” Commander Bouleau made a single, significant nod toward the entrance to the piazza. “It could be difficult.”

“That it could,” said Captain Hafen.

Now that the translators had caught up, Pope An continued. “It is said in these analects that if you seek, you will find. It is an idea that has become distorted, or so my studies suggest. I believe it would be wiser to regard the phrase in this context: you cannot find if you will not seek, if you do not know what you are seeking. If you wish to find, seek first, for otherwise you will not achieve the goal of your quest.”

“I hate her calling the Gospels analects,” said Cardinal Jung loudly enough to be heard; he was stiff in his finery and indignation. He was not among those on the balcony. Instead he watched from a specially constructed platform where more than two hundred of the upper-echelon Vatican staff were allowed to share the stands with seventy-one of the eighty Cardinals present, two more slights that the Chinese upstart had visited on him. That she should occupy St. Peter’s chair! He sat very still, determined not to give this woman the satisfaction of knowing how deeply she had offended him. He had intended to be absent for the coronation, but had been dissuaded from such action by his Confessor; now he wondered if he ought to have complied with Bishop Wasserlauf's instructions: surely attending this fiasco was un-Christian.

“Further it is said that the door will open for you. It is also reported that Jesus said you must knock, for if you will not knock, there is no admission. To ask admittance when you do not know what lies beyond may be reckless, as Jesus cautioned you. It is this last that convinces me that the first two parts have been misunderstood, and that each exhortation is intended to guide you to self-knowledge and wisdom, which will not come if you are not willing to pursue them in their own right.” Pope An fell silent again, and for a time her gaze rested on the platform where so many of the Cardinals sat. Her black eyes were tranquil.

The crowd had become attentive, and there was only the sound of shuffling and coughing. In the area reserved for newsmedia, reporters and cameramen alike competed to capture the moment.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” whispered INS anchorman Stephen Goldman into his lapel microphone. “This is amazing.”

“Those who petition without knowing what they ask for will encounter confusion and disappointment. How could they not? If you will not identify what you seek, you will find inappropriate things, and will say that it is the fault of Jesus, not your lack of definition. Only with understanding comes the thing itself.” She reached out and took the tall crucifix once more. She nodded once to Cardinal Fiorivi in acknowledgment of his service.

When Willie had finished his English rendition, he muttered in Chinese to Pope An. “I fear you’ve set the cat among the pigeons.”

She frowned slightly, considering, then nodded. “I take your meaning, but I don’t see reason for the warning. I am doing the thing I have been asked to do.”

“You know as well as I that most of them don’t want that,” said Willie, still in Chinese, keeping his voice very low so that his cautions would not be picked up by the microphones that sprouted in front of them like a bouquet of electronic flowers.

“More than they do not want me?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer, she went on to the last of her address. “Therefore, let each of you seek within himself or herself to find what it is that you truly want to receive; you may find you do not want what you have previously sought, or that the thing you wish for, you have already. Only then will you be able to knock where you wish to enter.” There was not enough room for her to step back more than a few inches, but she did this, lowering her head to show she had finished speaking.

“That’ll light a fire under them,” said Cardinal Mendosa softly as he leaned a bit forward. His mouth was stern but his eyes glinted with humor.

Pope An understood him well enough to respond in inexpert English, “Do you think so?”

“Watch them.” Cardinal Mendosa pointed down into the piazza. “They’re the gauge.”

As the translations faded a tremendous shout rose from Saint Peter’s Square, fueled by as many emotions as there were mouths to shout.

On the Vatican platform, some of the staff were cheering, following Cardinal Cadini’s emphatic lead, but most cried out in protest and dismay. In the second row, Cardinal Hetre clutched his temples and wished he could bury his face between his knees; his headache was making him quite sick. Behind him, Cardinal van Hooven was the only one who was singing; very softly he began the tenor line of Bach’s Magnificat in D. He wished there were trumpets to accompany him, and a choir to join in.

* * *

“It’s not the kind of thing we can sweep under the table, and certainly not at such a crucial time,” said Cardinal Fiorivi, regarding the nine Princes of the Church who sat in his reception room; all but two of them were in secular clothes, welcoming suits and ties after the elaborate vestments of the previous day. Beside him stood Dionigi Stelo, the head of all Vatican security. Commander Bouleau waited at the far side of the room. “Cardinal Tayibha was murdered. The world press has already reported on his death. It’s not going to go away.”

“What does…the Pope say?” asked Cardinal Hauptberger. He was clearly uncomfortable with the discussion.

Cardinal Fiorivi sighed. “Her Holiness used to be a Magistrate. She said the murder must be investigated.”

“Because she was the target,” dismissed Odo, Cardinal Ruhig of Köln.

“Because a man was killed,” Cardinal Fiorivi told Cardinal Ruhig sharply.

“Because there’s scandal enough without an unsolved murder at the Vatican,” said the titian-haired Leo, Cardinal Pugno of Udine. “And she’s right.”

“Truly,” said Cardinal Fiorivi with a gesture to Dionigi Stelo.

He began without preamble, “The lab report indicated the presence of a poison that is manufactured for quick killing. After a matter of hours it is difficult to detect in the body, for lowering temperatures destroys its traces.” Dionigi Stelo had a soft voice, one that most had to strain to hear; it was part of his authority. All the Cardinals listened closely. “It isn’t readily available, this poison. Most of the time it is used by…shall we say espionage agents. Had it been administered at another time, we might not have been able to demonstrate its presence and the Cardinal’s death would have been attributed to natural causes. We must be thankful that Cardinal Tayibha died so publicly.” As he said the last his voice dropped even more. “We are left with a delicate problem: most governments will not admit they have access to such poisons. And they all do.”

“What are you saying?” asked Cardinal Pingari. He was one of two Cardinals present wearing a cassock.

“Whoever put the poison in the tea had to get it from somewhere. And that person wanted it to be very clear that it was a murder. Whether Cardinal Tayibha was the intended victim, or the Pope, or anyone else present, by administering the poison so that it would kill in full view the murderer made it plain that the poison was intended to be recognized for what it was. As I have remarked, the poison is not easily acquired, not from general nor black market sources. The drug cartels are a possibility, but they have so much poison of their own they could use.…” Dionigi Stelo looked down at the carpet. “In my position I must assume that someone on this staff, or associated with the staff, was able to obtain the poison somehow.”

“And by extension that means a government may be involved as well?” said Cardinal Pugno, his eyes shining and hard as sapphires.

“That is one possible conclusion,” said Stelo carefully.

“Or perhaps a faction within a government is responsible—a group acting on its own authority,” suggested Cardinal Ruhig, who had learned a great deal during the most obdurate part of the Cold War.

“It would seem more likely,” said Stelo after giving Cardinal Fiorivi a quick look. “It is our most reasonable theory at present. We have men working on it.”

“How many?” demanded Cardinal Lepescu.

“It isn’t my place to say, Eminence,” Stelo replied evenly.

“What is the purpose of those extra men?” asked Angelo, Cardinal Damovich of Trieste, his long fingers steepled under his cleft chin.

“They are investigators, protectors,” said Stelo.

“Catholics?” asked Cardinal Pingari.

“Most of them,” said Stelo. He paused. “We have also added to our agents within in the Vatican.”

There was a stillness among the Cardinals. Finally Cardinal Aquilino spoke. “He’s right. The poison had to get into the tea somehow, didn’t it? It didn’t just fly there by itself.” He was a last-minute addition to the unofficial committee, taking the place of Jeffrey, Cardinal Durand who had been sent that morning to a private conference with President Carey. The hawk-faced Cardinal from Chicago studied Dionigi Stelo with narrowed eyes. “Any leads on that front?”

“Perhaps,” said Stelo carefully.

Cardinal Aquilino nodded. “In other words you’re saying that none of us is above suspicion. I see your point.”

“Thank you, Eminence,” said Stelo.

Cardinal Ygnacio did not take this so well. “How can you make such an assumption, that one of us would participate in any in so appalling an act?”

“We can make no such assumption, of course, not as our only premise,” said Stelo with the deference born of long association with the Vatican. “However we cannot dismiss it as a possibility.”

“In other words,” said Moise, Cardinal Tornillo of La Paz, “you are not convinced one of us was not involved.” He was the other cassocked Cardinal in the room.

“We must consider all possibilities, Eminence,” said Stelo.

Cardinal Fiorivi indicated Commander Bouleau. “We’re coordinating with Interpol right now. They identified the poison and are trying to discover where it came from. Their help has been invaluable. Later today I’m going to brief the EECPA about this case. Interpol has already begun adding to our security forces, in addition to Stelo’s extra men.”

“The Swiss Guard is being given new instructions,” said Stelo. “Not only our public forces, but—”

Cardinal Fiorivi held up his hand. “It might be best if you don’t tell us too much. If we know everything, it might interfere with what you have to do.” He looked at the nine Cardinals. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Is it significant that most of us are not as well-known to the public as some of our more august brethren? Most of us don’t make the international news on our own, do we?” asked Cardinal Ruhig; his sarcasm went unchided. “Do you want us to stay out of sight? Is that why you asked us to serve on this committee?”

It took a second for Cardinal Fiorivi to answer. “It isn’t entirely an accident that you’re not recognizable to the public, no. You are also selected because most of you have some background in law, as I have. Four of you have practiced law, the other five have taken degrees in it, two in international law. Given what we have learned thus far, we must be prepared for legal actions to result in this case.”

“I notice a certain spread of territory,” observed Cardinal Pugno. “You and I are Italians; the rest—a German, an Austrian, a Romanian, an American, a Filipino, a Bolivian, a Slav, and an Australian—cover a wide territory.”

“Distributing the load over the widest surface,” said Cardinal Stevenson without a hint of joking; only Dionigi Stelo smiled.

“There is some truth in that, too,” said Cardinal Fiorivi. “You nine are supposed to balance one another. I was instructed by Her Holiness to avoid regionalism.” He looked at the seat in front of him. “We must be very discreet, for the sake of the Church as much as the law.”

“More to the point,” said Cardinal Ruhig, “we must solve this crime.”

“Yes,” said Cardinal Fiorivi as if a weight had landed on his shoulders with great suddenness. “We must.”

* * *

It was almost four in the afternoon and Rome was still achingly hot. Martin Bell leaned against the side of the building at the entrance to the little piazza and waited for Cardinal Mendosa, who was ten minutes late. He carried a leather folder under his arm, and he spent the time watching the women who frequented the expensive shops just across the road.

A cab pulled up near the fountain—one of the new taxis that ran half on petrol and half on electric power—and the Texan stepped out of it, his summer-weight suit looking a little rumpled. He paid off the driver and glanced around, frowning against the glare.

Martin Bell raised his free arm as the cab bolted.

When he caught sight of Bell, Cardinal Mendosa gave a single nod before waiting for a break in the traffic to cross the narrow street. Shading his eyes, he watched the cars hurtling past, and took advantage of the first break.

“Done like a Roman,” said Bell as Cardinal Mendosa came up to him.

“Good God, I hope not,” said Cardinal Mendosa. He was looking tired and he knew it. He regarded Bell with a combination of resignation and curiosity. “Why do you want to talk to me? Or are you relaying messages?”

“A little of both, actually,” said Bell, indicating the little open-air bakery and coffee shop a short distance up the road. “Let me buy you a snack.”

Cardinal Mendosa shrugged. “If you like.”

“It makes it easier,” said Bell, determined to be friendly. “Why make this more of a chore than necessary?”

For several steps Cardinal Mendosa said nothing, then he relented enough to address a question to Bell. “Why do you suppose he did it?”

Bell looked startled. “Why who did what?”

“Why Karodin pulled the strings to get Her Holiness out of China?” He cocked his head, chin toward Bell.

Martin Bell thought about it. “I don’t know,” he admitted as they came out of the bakery. A dozen small tables, each with two or three wire-backed chairs drawn up around them, clustered around the bakery door as if captivated by the marvelous aromas. “I’ve wondered about that myself. Are you sure he really was the one who pulled it off?”

“Really sure, no,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “I wasn’t there, and Magistrate Zhuang has no information as to how she got her visa. Still, it seems from what he’s said that he was the one who arranged for her to leave. I am grateful, I suppose, that he did it. I don’t like the conditions he imposed on me, but I have no reason to assume he was not telling the truth. There’s no sensible reason to lie about what he did for Zhuang. That isn’t what bothers me. What little contact I have had with Karodin isn’t enough to let me guess about his motive.”

“But you’re satisfied he’s the one behind it?” asked Bell, intrigued. He selected a table, dropped his leather folder on it, and pulled out both chairs with a flourish. “Your Eminence?”

“No title,” Cardinal Mendosa warned him sharply. “I don’t want to be the object of interest.” He sat down, his rangy frame making the chair seem like furniture for a child.

Bell realized his error at once. “No, of course not.” He reversed his chair and straddled the seat, his arms folded along the back. “You’re probably tired of dealing with the press.”

“I’m tired of much more than that, especially subterfuge,” said Cardinal Mendosa shortly, then made a slap at the air with his hand. “But that doesn’t excuse me being surly with you. Beg pardon.”

“No need to ask,” said Bell, looking up as a slender young man in waiter’s black-and-white approached. “Espresso doppio for me. And you?”

“Caffe latte,” said Cardinal Mendosa. He stared out at the traffic as the waiter retreated. “I gave him my word. Karodin, I mean. I said he would have regular reports from me. He made it a condition of Zhuang’s release. And I’ll keep my word. But it troubles me, just as his motives trouble me.”

“Then why accommodate him? You’ve got what you want. Why send the reports now that she’s here?” asked Bell, not expecting an answer. He noticed a tall, buxom woman with glossy dark hair emerging from the shop next door; his eyes lingered on her as she made her way toward the bakery.

Cardinal Mendosa was startled. “I said I gave him my word. I can’t go back on that. I’m discredited enough as it is. I won’t add to it; I won’t take the chance of exposing the Pope to any scandal.” He reached into his jacket and drew out a plain envelope. “Here. You know how to get this to the right person.”

Bell took the envelope, amazed that Cardinal Mendosa would hand it over so readily and openly. “Yes. I’ll attend to it discreetly.”

“Thank you,” said Cardinal Mendosa flatly. Once again his attention was taken by the traffic. “I suggest that neither of us discuss these dealings in front of Cardinal Cadini. He has been too good a friend to me, and too devoted to Zhuang for me to want to compromise him by embroiling him in this…this intrigue.”

“If that’s what you want,” said Bell, wanting to offer some reassurance to the Cardinal, but could not think of what to say. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I appreciate it,” said Cardinal Mendosa. Then he straightened in his chair. “I'm relying on your discretion, Bell.” He coughed once. “In addition to your other help, I want you to get Karodin’s assurance that he and his agency had nothing to do with the death of Cardinal Tayibha.”

“But why?” asked Bell, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the attractive woman had taken another one of the outdoor tables. “You don’t think he had anything to do with it, do you?”

“I don’t know.” Cardinal Mendosa stifled a sigh. “Someone killed him. The autopsy revealed a rare poison, one of the sorts that has to be specially manufactured. The poison had to come from somewhere.”

“And you suspect the KGB?” Bell inquired, who shared the suspicion.

“It’s a possibility, but not the only one, not by a long shot,” said Cardinal Mendosa. He fidgeted in his chair. “That’s what’s been making it so difficult for me. It’s possible that I created a link that brought about Cardinal Tayibha’s death. I pray I haven’t, but if I have in any way contributed to the murder of a fellow-Cardinal, how am I to—” He broke off. “I shouldn’t be saying this to you.”

“I won’t repeat it,” said Martin Bell, hoping he would be able to keep his promise. “I have no reason to repeat it.”

“Of course you do,” said Cardinal Mendosa without anger. “You could sell an article about these suppositions to any number of publications, from academic to supermarket sleaze. You could sell a book about the election of this Pope, and include this as a sidebar.”

Since Bell had already started making notes about the impact of this Papal election, he had no glib denial for Cardinal Mendosa. He watched the woman for most of a minute. “I probably will do a book,” he said at last, oddly relieved to admit his plan, “But I won’t include any of this in it. Well, think; I can’t, can I? There would be questions for me to answer if I say anything to expose you.”

“There could be a problem or two for you, I’d imagine,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “You could damage yourself seriously. So you ought to be able to understand why I’m apprehensive.”

“Of course,” said Bell, noticing the waiter returning.

Cardinal Mendosa saw the man as well, and fell silent, his charcoal-brown eyes again fixed on the traffic in the road. He muttered his thanks when a caffe latte was placed in front of him, but he neither looked at the young man nor invited any comment from him.

Martin Bell paid for their coffee and added a reasonable tip. He look a little curl of lemon peel and gave it a twist before dropping it into the espresso.

“In the States you teach where?” asked Cardinal Mendosa as he took the long spoon to stir his caffe latte.

“Stanford,” said Bell, puzzled at the turn in the conversation.

“Stanford,” Cardinal Mendosa repeated. “Yeah, you wouldn’t want your KGB connection to get around there, even in these friendly days. Stanford is pretty conservative turf.” He set his spoon aside. “I’ve been out there a couple of times, to conferences and to debate Vince Walgren about handling drug gangs. It’s a handsome place. You can see it has money.”

“Yes, it does,” said Bell, and asked, “What are you trying to find out?”

“Nothing spectacular,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “I was just curious how much you have at risk, running errands for the KGB.”

“And how much of a risk do you think it is?” Bell asked, stung.

Cardinal Mendosa smiled only with his mouth. “More than I guessed.”

* * *

Rufus Greene and Clancy McEllton sat in the limousine facing forward. Cardinal Hetre, in a cassock, rode with his back to the driver and the connecting window closed. Traffic in Rome was more congested than usual, which slowed their progress to little more than a jogging pace.

“There are Eurocops all over the place,” said Clancy, indicating the mess along the Via dei Quattro Fontane. Ahead the front of San Cartino was covered with scaffolding, and beside it three white-and-blue cars waited. “They’re spot-checking. Eurocops!”

“Not surprising, with the Ministry of Defense and the Ministry of Finance so near.” Cardinal Hetre dismissed the presence of the police emphatically.

“That’s not the reason, Eminence. They’re here because of the murder of Cardinal Tayibha,” said Greene. “They’re being cautious. You know, it’s interesting, how little information the Vatican and the police have released about his death. I don’t suppose they’ve learned who did it, or why?”

“No, nothing yet,” said Cardinal Hetre, his face set with disapproval and a trace of envy. “Or if something is known, Stelo is keeping it secret, along with the rest of that security committee of his.”

“The Vatican is very good at keeping secrets,” said Clancy with a touch of pride. “They’ve had hundreds and hundreds of years to practice.”

Cardinal Hetre shook his head. “We should have said nothing at all. We should have gone ahead and arranged for his funeral, and said nothing. The autopsy was a mistake, and making it public about the poison was a serious error in judgment. It’s made everyone suspicious and brought too much attention on us. If we didn’t have this travesty of a Pope! That Chinese woman required that we inform the police and the public. She said it was not in keeping with what Jesus taught to withhold such information.” His eyes smoldered. “Everyone is afraid to say the tea was for the Chinese woman. They want to pretend the poison wasn’t for her. Why should it be for Cardinal Tayibha? He hadn’t been a Cardinal long enough to make many enemies, but he came from India, and that is offensive to some of us. That is what they are implying in their briefings, that someone disapproved of him because he was Indian.”

“Are you taking credit for the attempt on the woman’s life?” asked Clancy with a touch of mischief.

“Not I,” said Cardinal Hetre. “How could I? The government in Montreal doesn’t deal with poisons like that, and I could scarcely have got it in Winnipeg.” His head was only a little sore now, more a residual ache than real pain. “And in any case, I would not attempt so cowardly an act; poison is the weapon of the craven.”

“But you are talking with us, with the intention of ending her rule,” said Greene. “How is this different.”

“I don’t want to kill her, not if it isn’t necessary. I want to see her discredited, as she should have been from the first, removed from office, and those who have insisted we elevate her made to pay for their blunder along with her. But killing her, no, that is too much. The scandal would be terrible. Killing her makes her a martyr. There must be a better way to be rid of her.” He folded his hands in his lap. “Remember how rife the rumors were when John-Paul I died, and there were so many questions asked about him? It was very damaging, very divisive to the Church. And his death was an unfortunate mishap. This is much worse; it is quickly becoming a disaster.”

“Cardinal Tayibha was murdered, wasn’t he?” asked Greene. “There’s no doubt about that?”

“I’m not saying he wasn’t.” Cardinal Hetre scowled at the American. “But it isn’t a good idea to permit everyone in the world to review the evidence.” He nodded toward the street. “Everyone out there has his own theory about what happened. Everyone has speculated on the role the Church played in Cardinal Tayibha’s death. That’s the trouble with making the autopsy results public. It brings too much attention on us, attention that causes distress to Catholics all over the world. They have endured the farce of this Papal election, but there is no reason they should have to share in this folly as well.”

“But the man is dead,” said Clancy. “Someone put poison in his tea. Your reports indicate that the poison was not in Tayibha’s cup but in the pot of tea. Anyone drinking that tea would have died. And the tea was prepared for Pope An.”

“Don’t call her that,” snapped Cardinal Hetre as his headache flared.

“It is the name everyone calls her. They can pronounce it more easily than Zhuang Renxin,” said Greene. He sighed as the limousine pulled to the side of the road, and a uniformed Eurocop tapped on the window. “Excuse this interruption,” he said to the passengers as he pressed the button to lower the window. “Yes, officer?”

The Eurocop was not thrown off hearing English. He answered in the same language with only a hint of a Veneto accent. “Your pardon, but as you are aware, we are conducting random inquiries.”

“Yes,” said Greene. “What do you want to know? We’re willing to cooperate, naturally.”

“Thank you,” said the Eurocop. “You are? May I see your passport?”

“Greene, Rufus Greene.” He pulled a Coach wallet from his jacket. “Here is my passport, and my receipt from the hotel where I am staying. I am Vice-President in charge of security for International Vision, Ltd. My cards and other identifications are also in the wallet, along with a copy of my travel itinerary.” He handed it over without any reluctance.

The Eurocop took the wallet and drew out Greene’s passport. “If you are in security, you probably comprehend the need for these precautions.”

“Most certainly. In your place I would probably do the same things you’re doing. All three of us are aware of the current difficulties.” He indicated the other two with him. “This is Mister Clancy McEllton, who does consulting work for me from time to time. And undoubtedly you know His Eminence Cardinal Hetre.” Greene went about the introductions with rapid efficiency.

“Eminenza,” said the Eurocop, ducking his head toward the French-Canadian.

Cardinal Hetre said nothing. Stiffly he waited for the Eurocop to be gone.

“Would you like to see my passport as well, Officer?” asked Clancy, taking his cue from Greene. “I’m not carrying my hotel receipts with me, but I’ll be happy to tell you where I’m staying: it’s on the north side of the city, off the Via Nerone, a place called the White Peacock.”

“The passport is sufficient,” said the Eurocop, handing Greene’s wallet back to him and extending his hand to Clancy.

“Here you are,” said Clancy as he fished his wallet—more battered and weathered than Greene’s—out of his jacket. “I’ve been going back and forth between here and London fairly frequently. All EEC countries, of course; I’ve also been to Germany and Greece in the last eight months. And I had a vacation in Denmark.”

“More security work?” asked the Eurocop without much interest.

“That’s my job,” said Clancy, watching while the Eurocop flipped through the pages of his passport. “I’m semi-independent. I’ve got continuing contracts with another company, but I take short-term consultations on the side. You know how it is.”

“Of course.” He returned Clancy’s wallet and bowed a little to Cardinal Hetre again. “I will need to see your Vatican identification, Eminence. For the record.”

This last addition chilled and infuriated Cardinal Hetre, who turned on the officer, his eyes baleful. “You’re impudent and insolent, Officer, and I will not tolerate it.”

“Sorry, Your Eminence, but we are required to—”

The Eurocop got no further. “I will report your actions to your superiors and I will insist that you be reprimanded for your actions. Is that clear?” He motioned to Greene to hold his tongue as he went on, for once taking satisfaction in the pain burgeoning in his skull. “I will not relinquish my identification to you. You know very well who I am and where I reside. Your attempt to bolster your position by making this untoward demand of me is not going to serve your purposes at all. I will personally see to it that you pay the full price for this effrontery.” He stared directly at Greene. “Roll up your window and have the driver take us away from here.”

“Eminence,” said Greene placatingly, “you might as well go through the motions for him. He knows who you are, but there are procedures. You ought to sympathize with him. He has his work to do.”

“That does not allow him to harass me. Or you,” he added as an afterthought.

The Eurocop sighed once. “Never mind, Mister Greene. Things have been a little tense around the Vatican. I’ll take care of it on the report. You won’t have any trouble about this.” He moved back from the window. “Drive on,” he ordered, motioning to the chauffeur to put the limousine in motion.

Greene waited until they had turned right onto the Via Nazionale before he spoke. “I don’t intend to criticize Your Eminence,” he began tactfully, “but I think that perhaps it was not wise for you to call so much attention to us as you did.”

“You’re absurd,” said Cardinal Hetre. The back of his head felt as if it were being squeezed in a vise; his hands were cold. “The fellow was impossible.”

“He was doing his job,” said Clancy, and ignored the restraining hand Greene put on his arm. “If you’d gone along with him, he wouldn’t have paid any attention to us. Now he’s going to remember he saw you, and with whom. That could make things trickier later on, after we do what we need to do. If you’d just handed over some ID, he wouldn’t have anything to recall about us. As it is, you could put him on a witness stand and get solid testimony out of him.”

“Don’t be foolish,” said Cardinal Hetre, but with less confidence than before. “It won’t come to that. With what he is doing, he will have many people angry with him by the end of the day.”

“That may be so,” said Clancy, “but most of them will not be Cardinals riding in limousines, if you will excuse my mentioning it.”

For an instant Cardinal Hetre saw himself standing over Clancy, both of them naked. He shook with revulsion and something darker. “Once his superiors castigate him properly, he will put the incident out of his mind.”

Greene read something in Cardinal Hetre’s expression and took a much gentler course with him than he had intended. “Eminence, do you think it is wise to speak to his superiors? If you complain, there will be an official record of what was done; that might be used against you, if there is ever any question of our…association. If you say nothing, it will be the man’s word against ours, and then no fault could be fixed on you.”

Now his headache was raging. Cardinal Hetre put his hand to his eyes to block out the muted sunlight. “I’ll consider what you say,” he told Greene while he did his best to contain his anguish. He wanted to get on his knees, to offer up his suffering in the hope that God would take it from him.

“Cardinal Hetre,” ventured Clancy. “Is something the matter?”

“A…slight headache. I’m prone to them.” He made himself lower his hands. “There. I think the worst has gone off. If you have an aspirin or—”

Not that aspirin would do any good, he knew, but it was what Greene and Clancy McEllton expected him to ask for. “Three tablets is my usual dose.”

“Very well,” said Greene, opening a leather-covered panel in the back of the limousine. “Aspirin or a substitute?”

“Aspirin,” said Cardinal Hetre firmly. “And a taste of wine to wash it down.”

“Of course,” said Clancy, reaching for the champagne that was chilling in a bucket beside Cardinal Hetre’s seat. “This was supposed to seal our bargain, but I reckon we might as well open it now.”

“Go ahead,” said Greene, who held out three tablets to Cardinal Hetre. “It will serve its purpose this way as well as the other.”

“And we are agreed that we will continue to work to be rid of this interloper in the Vatican, aren’t we?” Greene asked, directing the question at Cardinal Hetre.

“It sounds like it to me,” said Clancy, feeling merry now that he was certain Cardinal Hetre would provide them the introduction they needed to approach the new Pope. “We can drink to that, can’t we?”

“Thank you,” murmured Cardinal Hetre as he took the tablets. The pain was making him nauseated. “By all means, let us drink.”

The champagne cork popped and Clancy held a flute to catch the first enthusiastic overflow. When the glass was half-full he handed it to Cardinal Hetre. “To the end of all our headaches,” he said with an impish smile.

Cardinal Hetre, his features wan, his eyes like coals, lifted the glass in agreement before he washed down the aspirin.

Chapter 21

Dame Leonie looked tired from her long flight, but Willie hardly noticed. As soon as they reached his apartment, he shoved the door closed and pulled her into his arms. He held her for some time before he kissed her, convincing himself that this was no longer his overactive imagination at work, but Leonie herself; he did not need to dream of her any longer. Their kiss was complex, leaving both of them light-headed.

“It must be jet lag,” whispered Leonie, unwilling to move out of his arms.

“Is jet lag contagious?” Willie asked fondly. “God, it is wonderful to have you here.” He was horrified at how banal that sounded. He wanted to summon every loving word he had ever learned, entwine them all in wreaths of poetry for her; he did not know they were all in the way he spoke her name. “Leonie.”

She snuggled closer to him. “You don’t know how many times I’ve had to stop myself getting on a plane and coming here. Don’t bother to tell me how foolish that is.”

He kissed her brow. “All right; I won’t.”

Her suitcases lay at their feet making movement hazardous, or providing a splendid excuse to stand leaning together for a while. Finally Leonie sighed and disengaged her ankle from the long shoulder strap of her larger garment bag. “When word came from the Vatican—”

“What word?” asked Willie. “Who contacted you?” He had been told only that Dame Leonie had been requested to come to the Vatican, but nothing of who initiated the invitation. “It wasn’t Mendosa.” He was certain of that, but little else. He pulled her back close to him.

“Zhuang. Pope An.” She nudged against Willie, confiding, “I thought you were behind it. I didn’t think.… Why would she send for me, but because of something you asked?”

Willie scowled. “I don’t know,” he had to confess, and resolved to have the answer as soon as he had his next audience with Her Holiness. “I’ll find out.” The pressure of Leonie’s body against his was too distracting for him to worry about the Pope now. He reached up and sank his hand in her hair, disarranging her elegant coiffeur. It pleased him to mess her hair, to change it from sleek perfection to a glorious tangle.

They kissed again, and this time there was a promise in the way their mouths met. After a long moment she pulled away, saying, “Is this wise?”

“No,” he answered before he unfastened her jacket and started to work on the concealed buttons of her blouse. “Oh, yes.” His whole attention was focused on what he was doing. At the first touch of her skin, a shock went through him as jolting as electricity. His breathing grew ragged. He kicked off his loafers.

She had dropped his tie and was tugging him out of his jacket. She glanced toward the French doors leading onto his little balcony. “Shouldn’t we—?”

“Close them?” he finished for her. “Someone might notice that. I'll draw the curtains. That’ll keep prying eyes out.” His smile transformed his face, making him fifteen years younger and idealistic again. He hurried to do this, taking care to stay out of the sunlight. Once the filmy curtains were across the doorway, he tossed his jacket onto the nearest chair and turned back toward Leonie once again.

She was naked, but for her slim gold necklace and earrings. With her hair in disarray, her jewelry became tokens of intimacy, making her somehow more naked than she would have seemed without them. She fixed her eyes on him, her pupils enormous so that her eyes were almost black. “I don’t know why I want you so much.”

The intensity of her voice shook him, and he tried to answer flippantly; he read something in her demeanor that was unlike anything he had discovered in her before. “We’re middle-aged crazies? Leonie?” It sounded wistful. He put his cufflinks on the dresser and flung his shirt aside.

“Nothing so easy,” she said, coming toward him. She stopped directly in front of him, all her senses heightened. She could not keep from trembling. “I guess what they used to say is true. If you don’t squash passion when you’re young, it gets stronger with age.”

He nodded once, his throat tight. Slowly he reached out and touched her necklace, holding the fine gold links between thumb and middle finger. “Yes. It does.” His admission was so all-consuming that it took his breath away. With an effort he stepped back from her. “Sorry, getting out of trousers is so damned awkward,” he said, suiting actions to his words.

She made a breathless attempt at a chuckle, then caught his hand in hers as he straightened up, trousers and socks abandoned in a heap on the floor. “I’ve been dreaming about this all the way here.” She led him the half-dozen paces to his bed, falling back onto the tousled sheets and pulling him with her. “I couldn’t concentrate on anything. But this.” She wrapped her arms around him.

Her lips were on him, tasting him everywhere. He lay back as she began her quest, and she indulged her desire, finding him more eager, more receptive than he had been before, even while she unfurled the condom, sheathing him and driving him to greater excitement. Her skin seemed fused with his own, as if the flesh between them dissolved so that each became part of the other where she straddled him. With culmination came deep, joyous laughter.

The bell from the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore pulled them back to themselves. They rolled apart, each laughing softly, without embarrassment.

“I don’t want to give this up,” said Leonie, for the first time showing real concern. “I don’t want to give you up, Willie.”

Again a flippant response hovered on his lips, but he never spoke. Instead he leaned over and kissed her lightly. “I don’t want to give you up, either.”

She touched his face. “I wish we could stay together. Every day I wish it more and more. But the scandal. There would be so much scandal.”

“We’d weather it,” he said, for the first time in his life certain it was true. “Your royals have got through worse.”

“Do you think so?” Doubt clouded her features. “Maybe we would as lovers, but.… It sounds so bloody-minded to say this out loud: scandal would ruin my career. I mean ruin it utterly. Because of what would come out about…my husband. None of the royals have had that over them.”

“That we know of,” Willie pointed out.

“Exactly. That would be the scandal.” She sighed, her breath shaking. “Twenty years of work, and it would count for naught.” Her hand slid to his chest. “I feel dreadfully selfish, telling you this. I feel mean-spirited and.…”

He stopped her, placing his finger beside her mouth. Although he could not convince himself it was true, he said, “Don’t fret. People would forget in time. You know how these things are.”

“Yes,” she said very somberly. “I do. Perhaps if I were a man it wouldn’t matter so much, but—” She moved away from him. “Divorce would be bad enough. But it wouldn’t stop there, would it?”

Willie watched her sit up. He wanted to reach out and pull her back to him, to restore their closeness. “Divorce happens. The whole Church of England was founded on a divorce. You aren’t Roman Catholic, he is, and a bad one, at that. You agreed to raise your children Roman Catholic. You took the Catechism, for the sake of the children. What children? No one would insist you stay with a man who’s homosexual, unless you want to. If divorce isn’t possible, then a real, legal separation, not this living apart for years on end. Separations happen. You and I know of a dozen couples who haven’t spent any time together in the last ten years, and everyone knows that those marriages are fiction. When they end it, everyone’s relieved. It would be all right. Most people would understand. They’ve understood about others.”

“Not women in my position,” she said slowly. “There are two women Ambassadresses representing the English in the world today. Neither of us would remain in our positions if anything was discovered to our discredit.”

He wanted to persuade her with the very sound of his voice. “Leonie. You could leave him. You could.”

She turned, her lovely back caught in a slice of hazy light, her face in shadow. “Do you think so?” There was a suggestion of a forlorn smile in the darkness.

“Well,” he answered carefully, “I hope so.”

“Hope?” She took his hand in hers. “I’d like to hope so, too. But how can I, Willie?”

* * *

Zhuang Renxin wore black slacks and a quilted black jacket. Her lapel pin was her only concession to her position—a jeweled and enameled Papal tiara. In that she was much in the mundane style of her companion, except for the cowboy boots. She poured out a cup of tea and glanced at over at Cardinal Mendosa. “Would you like some?” She paid no attention to the magnificent dome of Saint Peter’s that occupied most of the view from her study window.

“Please,” he said, settling back in his chair.

She poured a second cup, but before handing it to him, she said, “I have not heard anything more from the police about the death of Cardinal Tayibha. What progress is being made?”

“They don’t report to me, Worthy Magistrate. I can ask, if you wish.” He accepted the tea. “According to what has been in the news, the whole thing remains a mystery. No one wants to admit that someone wants to kill you.”

“But someone does. Probably many people do. The police ought to report to me,” she said, handing him his cup.

“As Pope or Worthy Magistrate?” asked Mendosa without a trace of sarcasm. “They might not know your skills in these situations. Or your concern, for that matter.” The tea was too hot. He put it aside for the moment.

She smiled as she looked at him. “Who has the right to be more concerned than I? As Magistrate, I want to be kept informed. As Pope, I want to be on guard.”

“I think some of them don’t understand you yet, Worthy Magistrate. They hope that if they tell you nothing, the reason for their worry will…disappear.”

“Disappear. Very clever, Mendosa.” She took her tea and sat down. “I have been told there are those who disapprove of me serving tea to my guests. Why is that?”

“Oh, more of the panoply you dislike so much, Magistrate Zhuang. We’re supposed to wait on you, not the other way around. You know what became of Cardinal Tayibha because there is someone at the Vatican who doesn’t know you very well. You see, there are those who would compete for the privilege of pouring your tea, if you would let them. Tell you what: if anyone else speaks against it, say you are doing it for humility; that ought to shut them up.” He stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles.

“Why would that succeed?” She sipped her tea, her black eyes fixed on him, alert and very determined.

“Because humility is a virtue, and you can say that as Pope you seek to set an example of it.” His smile was wintery. “Who knows? Some of them might even take it to heart for a day or two.”

Zhuang chuckled. “How on earth did you manage to become a Cardinal, with such an attitude?”

He waved one hand negligently, grinning. “My uncle helped. He plowed several million dollars into building the Four Evangelists—my cathedral at home—and twice again as much into restoring and preserving historic Catholic churches in Europe and America. He let it be known that he would be thanked if his priest-nephew advanced. And I was politically desirable at the time of my first two promotions.” He reached over to get the tea. “And my vices are minor ones in the eyes of the Church.”

“Your uncle is a wealthy man, then?” She appeared genuinely surprised.

He regarded her. “Yes. So was my father. Two of my brothers are extremely rich.” Then he made a canny guess. “You were thinking I was a poor Mexican-American who had been able to pull himself out of poverty through the Church? Is that it?”

She gave a single nod. “I have heard that Mexicans are very poor in Texas.”

“Some of them are. More of them than ought to be are,” said Mendosa. “But Tex-Mex isn’t really Mexican, not the way you mean. I wasn’t born Carlos, I was born Charles. I have a sister named Kathleen, and one named Taylor, for her Godfather. I learned most of my Spanish in school and from my grandparents. My family has been in Texas for seven generations. That might not sound like a lot to you, Worthy Magistrate, but in Texas it’s quite a record.”

“Then your position was bought?” she asked, sounding disappointed.

He refused to be ashamed. “If I hadn’t been any good at the job, I wouldn’t be a Cardinal. There’s only so much rich relatives can do, and then you either”—he very nearly said “shit or get off the pot,” but modified it—“cut the mustard or you’re siphoned off to some unimportant work well out of harm’s way.” He took two gulps of tea and added the only thing that truly mattered to him. “Besides, I have always believed that I was supposed to be here.”

A month ago such a statement would have appalled her. Now she shrugged. “You’re not another fanatic, Mendosa. You don’t have that hunger in your eyes I see in so many here. What is your ambition?”

He looked directly at her and smiled, “To serve God, Worthy Magistrate, in the only place I can—the world.”

She poured more tea and held the pot out to him. “I think my English is getting very good.”

“Very good,” he seconded, making no comment on her abrupt change of subject; she would reveal what was on her mind in time.

“Two hours of intensive instruction each day for four months has helped me, and watching American and British television.” She set the pot down. “Have more when you wish it.”

“Thank you, Worthy Magistrate.” He remained still, watching for what she would say next.

“I have a few questions I want to address to you. I am relying on you to give me the answers I need. I have asked my tutors and a few of the others—I will tell you who later—but not even Cadini will tell me what I wish to know.” She tapped one foot. “It is very disturbing to me that so many in this Church are not willing to speak openly.”

“It’s habit, Worthy Magistrate. Most of them have forgotten how.” He got up and poured himself a little more tea.

“It is very annoying to me,” she said as if she were in court. “I wish those serving me to be reliable.”

“Tell them that,” suggested Mendosa, although he knew it was useless.

“I have,” she said, the tone of her voice revealing how little good it had done. “They do not know what I mean. They are confused and…like one being attacked.”

“Defensive,” Mendosa supplied.

“Yes. So I am coming to you. You are the one I will depend upon once again.” She pursed her lips, a sure sign that she was about to ask something difficult.

“What is it?” Mendosa asked, in pleasant dread.

She set her cup aside. “Tell me why there are such stringent rules about marriage—why those who are married must always remain married and those who are in the Church are not permitted to marry ever.” She poured more tea and folded her arms once she set the pot down. “I don’t want to hear about Christ. I want to hear about the Church. They are not the same thing.”

“No, Worthy Magistrate, they are not,” said Mendosa sadly. “And the stringency doesn’t limit itself to marriage.”

Her hands tightened. “Well?”

“Marriage first.” He went to the window and studied the dome of Saint Peter’s. “When the Church was beginning, those who were Christians worshipped in small groups. Often those groups didn’t agree about many things. Most of the early Christians wanted to live communally, sharing everything, including their bodies. Their Mass was a love feast, literally. They shared food and then they made love as a group. The Christians who were followers of the Apostle Paul didn’t think that way, and in time they became a large enough group to challenge the other Christians.” He turned back to her. “There was a Synod of Bishops. You know what that is.”

“It is an official council meeting,” she said promptly.

“At that time, Bishops set the policy of the Church. The Pope was supposed to tend to spiritual matters and leave the grubby job of running the Church to the Bishops.” He laced his fingers together. “This particular Council made a lot of decisions about dogma—the things all Christians must believe in order to be Christians—but they did a number of other things, as well, including editing the sacred texts so that they conformed to their own positions. They fixed the Church’s position on many things having to do with sex.”

“And what has that to do with marriage and divorce?” She got up, going to sit behind the trestle table where she could take notes. Her tea was left to cool.

“Well, according to the New Testament, as it reads now, Jesus said there could be no divorce.” Mendosa watched her pen move, the characters appearing like doodles to him.

“I will look this up,” she said emphatically.

Mendosa did not doubt her. “But there are many accomplished scholars who contend that what Jesus was speaking against was the practice of abandoning unwanted wives. In that time, the time Jesus was alive, a Jewish wife who was abandoned not only received no help from her husband, she could not remarry until he died. If her family took her in, she had a chance, but if they refused—and many of them did—the woman became a beggar or a prostitute or both. Some of them sold themselves to the Romans as slaves because Roman law required Romans to feed and house and clothe their slaves.”

Zhuang shook her head as she wrote. “This is disgraceful.”

“Are you saying such things happened only in Judea?” he asked gently.

“No,” she conceded at once. “But that does not lessen the disgrace.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He waited for her signal to go on. “You’ve read Paul, and you realize he has little use for women.”

“He is the one who wants women to keep silent and worship their husbands. He was always in the company of a young man, wasn’t he? There was a time in China, an ancient and corrupt time, when Chinese people thought the same way, that wives were for the benefit of their husbands only and had no worth beyond that. We have reformed.” She continued to write.

“Since the Synod followed Paul’s teaching, women lost what little status they had attained in the Christian community, and were relegated to devices for reproducing males.” He said it deliberately. “The debate from that decision is still going on.”

“If I am the first woman to be Pope except for a legend, this is most certainly true.” She pulled another piece of paper from the drawer. “So women were made slaves once more.”

“They weren’t called that,” Mendosa reminded her.

“So much the worse, then, for calling them anything else is.…” She faltered, looking for the right word. “A falseness? Not that, but similar.”

“A lie?” Mendosa suggested. “Hypocrisy?”

“Yes. Both those things.” She started to write once more, then said, “They were as bad in China, but we were not as deceiving as you.” Her pen was poised. “I want you to tell me about the priests.”

“Why they don’t marry?” He chuckled, which caught her attention. “Do you want the official reason or the real reason?”

“The real one. I can learn the official one from the others.”

Mendosa started to pace. “Well, for a long time only monks and a little later, nuns, took vows of chastity, because they were either in isolated communities or living entirely alone. Chastity made sense, under those conditions. Priests, on the other hand, married and had families like the Christian flocks they tended. Eastern Orthodox priests marry to this day. So long as the Church had little property, this was acceptable. But then the Church started to grow rich. It owned lands and towns and whole regions. And the priests often left Church lands and monies to their children. The Church could not tolerate that, and so priests were forbidden to marry. That way, any children they had would be illegitimate and could not inherit anything from their fathers.”

“That is not honorable.” Her contempt was palpable.

Mendosa thought that if the case were taken before her as a Magistrate she would not uphold the Church. “Honorable or not, in 1074, shortly after the Eastern and Western Churches broke apart, married priests were excommunicated. Their children were declared illegitimate, so that they could not inherit Church property, and their wives were declared whores.”

“That is a long time after the Church began,” said Zhuang, not looking up from the page.

“So it was.” He turned away, striding toward the far end of the room. “A century before, the Church would not have had the authority to do it. But by the eleventh century, she could.”

“So the divorce ban is earlier. The priests not marrying are later. There are no women priests, though I understand the English have changed that rule in their Church. There are needed changes to be made in this Church.” She tapped the page with her pen. “I have asked many of the Cardinals about this. Ruhig said it was a matter of law, going back to the Jews. Bakony said it was tradition. Sclamonde said it was because of Eve, and women are her daughters and cannot be trusted to turn from the Devil. Ochoa would not discuss it at all. Jung said it was because the women can serve God as handmaidens, which is why they can be nuns.”

“Jung would,” said Mendosa darkly. He made himself take a less critical tone. “Not that I wish to speak against another Cardinal, Worthy Magistrate. We are all supposed to be brothers.”

“Brothers are the most deadly enemies if they are enemies at all,” she said. “Mo Tzu said that, and it has not changed from his time.” She went on with her writing. “I will want to know more about these questions of marriage. It is apparent to me that there are some long-overdue reforms needed. As a good Chinese woman, I do not approve of divorce, but I also do not approve of marriages that are slavery, or mockery. I must think about this.” She frowned. “And those who love their own sex? The Church, I am told, calls them abominations, but Cardinal van Hooven says it is the nature of many to love their own sex and is not contrary to God, or a question of morals at all. He says the Church is in error to assume otherwise.”

“You’ve been talking to Dame Leonie, haven’t you?” said Cardinal Mendosa with a quick smile. “That’s where all these questions started.”

“To some degree. I have learned more about her husband, who would rather spend his time with young men, and treats her unfairly. I do not approve.”

“What you do not approve of, Worthy Magistrate, is his treatment of Leonie, not his choice of partners. But he, like many men who strive to advance in the world, is required to assume a…disguise, to appear to be part of their dynasty in order to be taken seriously.” Cardinal Mendosa took a long sip of tea. “If Sir Arthur, Leonie’s husband, had been allowed to be as he is, he would not treat anyone as badly as he treats his wife, because he would not resent the requirements made of him. No one enjoys being forced to lie.”

“Does the Church forgive him?” asked Zhuang, leaning forward, elbows braced.

“Unfortunately, no. The Church continues to disapprove of him and all those like him, male or female. Priests who love men are tolerated in some places, but not very many, and those who are tolerated are not permitted to advance far. Aside from a few activist lesbian nuns, most women in Orders are required to set aside not only their sexuality but their femaleness in order to achieve Grace.” He set his cup down. “Priests who become Archbishops and above are expected to deny their sexuality entirely. In some men, this becomes an unending burden; guilt for desire, denial, obsession, in an endless cycle. If a man prefers men, the Church makes their burden greater.”

Zhuang sat still for a short while. “Tell me, what did Jesus say of this?”

Although he had not planned an answer, Cardinal Mendosa spoke quickly and easily. “Jesus said that we should love one another. I don’t recall Him putting any limits on love.”

For the greater part of a minute Zhuang was still. Then she wrote a decisive character before looking Cardinal Mendosa squarely in the eyes. “You are a most honest man, Mendosa.”

Mendosa rose and bowed to her. “Shiyeh shiyeh ni, Worthy Magistrate.”

“Your Chinese is improving, Mendosa,” she said.

“Not so much as your English,” he countered.

“You may thank Willie Foot and his three friends for that.” She took more paper from the drawer. “Now, I want to know about which Popes decided about the laws of marriage, and why.”

* * *

Both Dionigi Stelo and Leo, Cardinal Pugno were uneasy. They had arrived in Vienna two hours before and had taken rooms at the small, very discreet hotel near the Opera House. Their suite was on the fourth of six floors, with a courtyard balcony but no windows opening on the street, as their contact had recommended.

“I don’t like this,” said Stelo for the fourth time that hour.

“Then why did you agree to come?” asked Cardinal Pugno, who was getting tired of listening to the complaints of the head of Vatican security. He was wearing a dark suit and roman collar; but for his lapel pins he might have been nothing more than a priest. He had an appointment with Bruno, Cardinal Hauptberger at six and was anxious to conclude this uncertain business.

“We have to do something,” said Stelo miserably.

“But an anonymous tip from an unknown man.…” He shrugged as if for the benefit of a judge. “We’re here. We might as well see this out.”

“It’s as I’ve told you. Our investigation has not yielded anything worthwhile. That’s made the rumors worse. All of us look like dupes and fools. No one wants to admit it, but we haven’t been able to establish one real suspect, not sufficiently to take action against him. Them. Nothing we have thus far is conclusive. We are at a standstill,” said Stelo, shamed by his admission. “Interpol hasn’t turned up anything. Neither have the Eurocops. And we’re…not able to move properly.” This last admission brought tears to his eyes. “How can we investigate one of those we protect?”

“I think you need to reassess your priorities, Stelo,” said Cardinal Pugno. “I don’t see any difficulty in weighing the Pope against a Cardinal.”

“But this Pope,” protested Stelo, and then put his hand to his face.

“Yes; well you might,” said Cardinal Pugno with little sympathy. “This Pope, no matter what you think of her, is part of the succession from the Apostle Peter, and we are required to hold her in the same reverence as we have held every other Pope from the beginning of the Church. Especially now, when the Church is under siege in so many ways. At least this Pope An is an honorable woman. You know as well as I what reprobates some of the historical Popes were.” He looked steadily at Stelo, his bright blue eyes fixed on the other man’s.

“That was different,” muttered Stelo.

“Because they were born Catholics? Two of them at least were born Jews. Peter, for one. And Damasus II, who was German, came from a Jewish family whose conversion was problematic. Because they were Europeans? There have been thirteen Greek Popes, three African, five Syrian, two Dalmatians, and one from Antioch. Now we have one who is Chinese. And a woman.” He put his hands together, but not in prayer. “It isn’t what I would have recommended. If we had to have someone from outside, why did it have to be this Chinese woman? But that has nothing to do with our predicament.”

“There are those who say more attempts will be made.” Stelo had been worried about that from the moment Cardinal Tayibha died.

“As well they might,” said Cardinal Pugno ambiguously, motioning for silence as there came a knock at the door. “Who’s there? What do you want?” He waited for the answer.

“I have your lunch,” called a woman’s voice from the hall. “You specified this time.”

“Of course,” said Stelo, going to the door after he checked his watch; the service was very nearly on time. Before he opened the door, he moved to a protected position, ready to fend off an attack. He motioned Cardinal Pugno toward the bedroom. “Come in,” he invited, prepared for the worst.

A young chambermaid in the hotel’s conservative dark-green color came through the door. She smiled uneasily at the two men. “Roast chicken, grilled fish, steamed vegetables, bread, butter, Mosel wine, coffee,” she said, indicating the various covered plates on her wheeled cart.

“Very good,” said Stelo, doing his best to act as if there was nothing unusual in his reception. He kept in position to block her from leaving quickly.

The chambermaid looked apprehensively from one man to the other. “Is something the matter?”

“We’re expecting a third man,” said Cardinal Pugno smoothly, as if their actions were explained by the missing third man. “He is supposed to be here at two. Fourteen hundred.”

“It’s thirteen-forty-eight,” said the chambermaid, after a swift glance at her watch. “Do you want anything for him?”

“He’ll order, when he gets here,” said Stelo, giving her a smile that was not reassuring. He reached into his pocket and brought out two crumpled notes. “Your tip. Put the rest on the bill.”

“You have to sign for it,” she said, holding out the receipt.

“A pleasure,” said Cardinal Pugno, who took the check and signed it with a flourish. He knew his title would impress the young woman.

She flushed as she read his signature, and curtsied to him. “I’m sorry, Eminence. I didn’t realize—”

“It is a private matter,” said Cardinal Pugno. “I hope you will not reveal my presence?”

“No, of course not.” She was blushing now. “I’ll…I’ll leave you alone. I don’t want to intrude.”

“Thank you,” said Cardinal Pugno, and watched while the chambermaid beat a hasty retreat. He then turned to Stelo. “Are they short of waiters, do you think, that they sent a maid to serve our lunch?”

Stelo blinked. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Neither do I,” said Cardinal Pugno. “Were I still practicing law, a detail such as this one might trouble me.”

Dionigi Stelo glared at the covered plates. “Do you think these are safe?”

“I don’t know,” the Cardinal answered.

The two men fell silent, caught in speculation, so that the tap on the door seemed loud to them.

Once again Stelo took up his position, ready for the worst. “Who is it?”

“I believe you’re expecting me,” said a smooth voice in English.

Cardinal Pugno gestured to Stelo. “Move away from the door.” When Stelo had done this, Pugno said, “Come in.”

Very natty in British tweeds, Dmitri Yvgeneivich Karodin strolled into the suite, both hands in sight. He closed the door behind him and turned to regard the two men. “Good afternoon,” he said gently.

Both Cardinal Pugno and Dionigi Stelo recognized him. Cardinal Pugno recovered first. “You aren’t…who I was expecting.”

“I don’t suppose so,” said Karodin. He looked at the covered platters. “The chambermaid did her work well, didn’t she?”

“You arranged that?” asked Stelo, more suspicious than before.

“I thought it best,” said Karodin, sitting down on one of the two satin-covered sofas. “I’m hungry.”

Cardinal Pugno regarded Karodin narrowly. “Why did you summon us? You could have arranged other luncheon companions.”

“Very good, Eminence,” said Karodin. “Very capable, like most attorneys.” He paused to be certain he had the Cardinal’s attention. “There have been two attempts on the life of your Pope since she was elevated.”

“Two?” Stelo demanded.

“One killed Jivin, Cardinal Tayibha; that one you know about. The other killed two men and injured five pedestrians. It appeared to be an unfortunate traffic accident. But it was not.”

Stelo looked at Cardinal Pugno. “The accident last week!”

Cardinal Pugno did not let any emotions show in his blue eyes. “Is that what you mean? The accident on the Borgo Santo Spirito?”

“Yes,” said Karodin calmly. “The two men in the car were killed. Because one of my men did his job properly.”

“What proof have we of that?” challenged Cardinal Pugno.

“Under the platter of chicken there are a number of photographs. I think you will find them interesting.” He rose, cocking his head toward the small dining table on the far side of the room. “You can examine them while we eat. I am very hungry. Truly.”

Cardinal Pugno could only admire Karodin’s aplomb. “Very well. We will eat, and while we do, you’ll tell us what you know about this accident and why you think it was an attempt on the life of Pope An.”

“Most certainly,” said Karodin. He waited while Stelo checked the covered platters, smiling a little as Stelo removed a packet of photographs from under the largest one. “There. Now you have something to look at while I break my fast. I haven’t eaten since last night, and that was in Moscow.” He laid out napery and silver for himself, and took his place at the middle of the table. “I hope you don’t mind?” he asked as he helped himself to a good portion of chicken.

Cardinal Pugno was staring at the photographs. “Where did you get these?”

“An agent of mine, working in Rome for the last six weeks.” He put vegetables on his plate and broke a roll in half. “We were aware of this group, do you see? And we felt that their coming to Rome could bode nothing good.”

In the first photograph there was a travel-bag, on casual inspection filled with dirty clothes and a few souvenirs. On closer inspection—which the second photograph provided—the souvenirs turned out to be coverings for plastic explosives, with a travel alarm for a timer. The third photograph showed four men, each with identical travel-bags. Four more photographs were devoted to two of these men on foot wandering through the open areas of the Vatican. One of them was busy making notes. Cardinal Pugno shook his head in disbelief. “This isn’t possible.” He held up the next two photos showing one of the men standing at the entrance to the Vatican motor pool.

“You mean that no tourist ever wandered into that part of the Vatican before?” asked Karodin in polite disbelief. “Never?”

“It happens very rarely,” Stelo conceded.

“If the intruder is like that one, it need only happen once.” He poured himself a little of the wine. “Fortunately that was a trial run. It seems they decided it was too risky to try to get close to Pope An that way. So they selected another.”

“The automobile?” Stelo asked, knowing the answer already.

“It was out of control, or that is what everyone thought. Ironically, thanks to my man, it was out of control those last crucial seconds.” He took a little of the chicken, chewed, then went on. “It was supposed to crash through the fence to the garden where the Pope walks most afternoons. It had two of those bags in the trunk, and the whole thing would have detonated inside the fence.” He cut more chicken.

“That can’t be right,” said Cardinal Pugno.

“If you bother to look at the Eurocops report, you will see mention of the size of the explosion—it was much greater than an automobile of that size ought to produce, even with a full tank of petrol.” He wiped his fingers before picking up the crystal wineglass. “My man put a small charge under the transmission. He blew it up by radio signal when the automobile reached a danger area. He hadn’t counted on the automobile flipping over the way it did.” He gave them a few minutes to examine the rest of the photographs. “It’s all there.”

“Very convenient,” said Stelo.

“You mean that you think we were responsible?” asked Karodin without rancor. “Why would I bother to show these to you if we were responsible. You were not aware of this attempt, and very likely you would not have been aware of it if I hadn’t brought it to your attention.”

“And you might have arranged the whole thing, in order to gain access to us, or sympathy,” said Cardinal Pugno.

“I might, if I had something to gain,” said Karodin. “But how could I benefit?” He helped himself to a portion of fish. “You ought to join me. This is very good.”

“Why should we believe these photographs, or you?” asked Stelo.

“Because I am not Catholic. If I wanted your Pope harmed, I would have kept this to myself. But it happens that I don’t want Magistrate Zhuang to be harmed. I am of the opinion that she is useful.” He saw the change in expression. “Oh, not the way you believe. We have greater concerns in Russia these days than what one Chinese woman does in Rome. But I think that what she does will matter to all of us. She is a woman of conscience. That, in itself, might be a refreshing change.”

Cardinal Pugno flushed. “How dare you, of all men, make such an accusation.”

“I made no accusation. It was a simple speculation, based on opinion.” He met Cardinal Pugno’s accusatory gaze with unruffled ease. “You’re a good enough attorney to know the difference, Eminence.”

“You’re toying with the Church, Mister Karodin,” warned Cardinal Pugno, “and that can be a very dangerous thing to do, even for you.”

“But I’m not toying with the Church,” said Karodin, putting down his knife and fork. “I am volunteering my assistance. The photographs were supplied to show good faith.”

“Good faith,” mocked Stelo, who had taken the photographs from Cardinal Pugno. “Why should we believe you? Your reputation is for disinformation and deliberate confusion. Who is to say that this is not some clever ruse? Your KGB is not known for defending the Church.”

“I am not offering to defend the Church,” said Karodin with precision, “I am offering to defend Pope An. You will allow that there is a difference?”

“Oh, yes, there is a difference,” said Cardinal Pugno. “But a Chinese woman? Why did you come to us?”

Dmitri Karodin buttered the remaining half of his roll. “I am not here to try to convince you of my sincerity. I came to you because one of you ought to be in the best position to protect Pope An, and clearly cannot; the other is an attorney and skeptical by profession, Cardinal or not. Between you, you ought to be able to decide how useful those photographs are.”

“If they are genuine, they’re valuable,” said Cardinal Pugno. “You will have to forgive me if I am not convinced.”

“Forgiveness isn’t my work, it’s yours.” Karodin took a sip of the wine and set the glass aside. “The photographs are genuine. The identities of the men involved will be provided to you when you leave here. You can check them out as you wish. When you do, you will be able to evaluate my usefulness to you. I am here to provide my help, if you are willing to accept it. My reasons are my own.” He ate his roll before adding, “She needs help, you realize that, don’t you?”

“If what you say is true,” said Cardinal Pugno. He regarded Karodin with respect. “Whatever your motives, I suppose we ought to thank you for your interest in Pope An.”

“Then make the most of what assistance I can provide,” Karodin recommended.

“There are good men in the Vatican whose job it is to protect her,” said Stelo, affronted once more.

“My point precisely,” said Karodin.

Chapter 22

Vitale, Cardinal Cadini was the first to laugh, and he laughed hugely, leaning back in his chair and wiping his eyes. “Oh, dear,” he said when he was able to speak. “You are going to cause an uproar, Your Holiness.”

Pope An surveyed the gathering of fifteen Cardinals. “Any more uproar than my selection for this position has caused already?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Cardinal Stevenson, who had not been able to bring himself to laugh along with Cardinal Cadini. He did his best to explain, all the while glaring at Cardinal Cadini from the corner of his eye. “Your election is within the purview of dogma and doctrine, but this…this strikes at the heart of all that—”

“A decision made more than a thousand years after the beginning of this Church,” said Pope An at her most reasonable. “It was a political decision made by a Pope. Jesus said nothing about it. And therefore the order is subject to reversal. We are not in those barbarian times and the Church need not bind itself to judgments from that day.” She glanced over at Willie Foot. “Did I say it right?”

Willie did his best to control his laughter. “Oh, you most certainly did, Your Holiness.”

“There will be shock, of course,” said Cardinal Bakony, his face set.

“That iconoclast Mendosa’s behind this,” muttered Cardinal Hetre, his hand to his brow; his head had been throbbing for hours. He made himself sit straighter in his chair. “Holiness,” he said tentatively, “do you think this is the time for such an announcement? We are in very difficult straits. The Protestants are merciless in their criticism of the Church, to say nothing of the Moslems and Jews. We must consider the ramifications of such a decree.” He saw a few of the other Cardinals nod in agreement.

“Aren’t you the Cardinal who advised me that the Church is losing priests at an unparalleled rate?” Pope An watched the Cardinals; most of them were wary. “According to what I have been told, the most prevalent reason for these men leaving the priesthood is their desire to marry. Since it is possible to establish a legal contract with a priest so that Church property would not be left to the children of the priest, there is no reason to continue to forbid marrying. I have been told that some of the Apostles were married. Weren’t they?”

“Apparently,” said Cardinal Bakony carefully.

“Then married men were accepted by your founder Jesus as worthy to serve him and spread his teaching. If He didn’t disdain them, there is no reason for us to do so now.” She smiled. “That is the first part of my message to the Catholic world.”

Two of the Cardinals crossed themselves.

“In the same light, I have been reviewing the petitions of nuns who seek to become priests,” Pope An went on, politely determined. “I cannot doubt their desire, what you call their vocation. Their arguments are sensible and their dedication cannot be doubted.”

“Our Lord did not have women as Apostles,” said Cardinal Ygnacio at once.

“Your Holiness…it isn’t.…” began Cardinal Hetre, then faltered with the realization that he could think of nothing more to say that would not make him physically ill.

“For those nuns wishing to attend proper instruction, as men do now when they enter the Church, I will open the door. If I can be elected Pope, it is clear that these women are entitled to serve as priests if that is their wish.” She clapped her hands twice for the servants waiting in the corridor outside. “The announcement will be made tomorrow morning. I have prepared a copy of my statement for each of you. It will be distributed to all Cardinals tonight, by messenger if necessary. My only request is that you make no comment until I have spoken to the Catholics of the world first myself. Then you may speak your mind if that is what you want to do.” She got to her feet and put her hand to the lapel pin she wore. “Do any of you have questions?”

“This is Mendosa’s work,” said Cardinal Hetre in utter condemnation. “And that British woman you’ve brought here.”

Pope An countered at once. “You know as well as every other man here that I have been at pains to speak to all of you. I have listened to the Curia and many others. I have consulted those who are Catholic and those who are not. Ultimately, my decisions are my own, not those of Cardinal Mendosa, or Dame Leonie Purcell, or any other person. I respect the opinion of everyone, even those who are not Catholics, since I am not one.” She regarded Cardinal Hetre coolly. “If you think Cardinal Mendosa is behind my Bull, you have only to call him in Houston and ask him. If you think it was Dame Leonie’s decision, I will arrange for her to speak with you before dinner.”

Cardinal Hetre blanched. “I didn’t…it wasn’t my intention.…” He had to hold his head in both hands to keep the ache from eating through his skull. His teeth hurt as he clenched them.

“Holiness,” said Cardinal Bradeston, paying little heed to his French-Canadian colleague, “do you have any idea how much turmoil this is going to cause?”

“No,” said Pope An. “And neither have you.” She read shock on several faces. “You know only that you dislike what I am doing. You have come to believe the things you tell yourselves. You have decided that if priests are allowed to marry, the Church will not be able to weather the upheaval it will cause. But that upheaval may be nothing more than the product of your own fears. Who can say that it will not simplify the position of priests, and help those who wish to remain with the Church be true to their priesthood and true to their humanity as well?” She was glad now that she had spent the extra hours with Willie Foot working to improve her English. Her Chinese accent was quite strong and would always be—just as she would always think in Chinese—but her vocabulary and usage were good enough for most dealings. She was now beginning to learn Italian by the same intensive methods that she studied English. “As to the women who wish to enter the priesthood, I hope that there are enough Christians in the Church who remember that without a woman Jesus would not have been able to come to earth. If Catholics address Mary for intercession, surely women can serve as priests for the same reason.”

“But Holiness,” protested Cardinal Tsukamara, “to change something so basic to Catholicism—”

“The role of priest is not a matter of sex, if the early Christians are to be believed,” said Pope An in the same tone she had used to hand down her Magisterial decisions. “The complaints that the Church has treated women unfairly are well-founded. It has. If we are to hold ourselves up as an example of what Christians should be, then we must change these antiquated ways and permit men and women of faith to practice their faith as they see fit.” She looked directly at Cardinal van Hooven. “Isn’t every other limitation unfair?”

“It would seem so, Holiness,” said Cardinal van Hooven, his eyes larger than ever in his pebble-thick lenses. His smile was as huge and innocent as a baby’s. “And long overdue.”

“Thank you for that, Cardinal van Hooven,” she said. She watched the young priests hand out copies of her first Papal Bull, observing the way the Cardinals reacted to what they read.

“You’re going…far with this, Holiness,” said Cardinal Lepescu.

“You wish to tell me it is too far?” asked Pope An.

“I think so, yes,” said Cardinal Lepescu. “I do not say that such reforms are not needed, but to do them properly we will need time. You make no provision for a gradual transfer in this…statement.”

Pope An nodded decisively. “I have seen how well gradual changes work, and it does not satisfy me. That way is the course of the timid who are without purpose. I think the Church is better served by one strong shock than a series of little ones. This way, it is all done at once, and we cannot be trapped in endless debate in which everyone tries to satisfy one particular group or perspective, and in the end no one is satisfied at all.” She put her hands on her writing table, leaning forward on them for emphasis. “The priests are not being required to marry, and no nun is being required to become a priest. I am only making it possible for those who wish to do these things to do them.”

Cardinal Hetre stumbled to his feet. “Your…Holiness. You must excuse me. I’m…not well.” He fumbled his way toward the door.

“One of you,” said Pope An, indicating the young priests who had passed out the copies of her Bull. “Attend to Cardinal Hetre. Be sure he is all right, and if he is not, summon his physician.”

“He has a history of headaches,” said Cardinal Bradeston, as the young priest guided Cardinal Hetre out of the room. “It hasn’t been easy for him.”

“True,” said Cardinal Cadini, who was beaming at the document he held. “You do not know how long I have prayed for this day. When I was younger I hoped John XXIII might have time enough to bring it about, but—” He made a resigned gesture. “I hoped it would come in God’s time, as everything must. At least it has happened while I’m alive to see it.”

Cardinal Ochoa glowered at him.

“What do you think?” said Cardinal Bakony, not bothering to address Pope An, but turning to his fellow-Cardinals. “Will this send our flocks scattering?”

“I hope not,” said Cardinal Tsukamara. “But I fear it might. The Church has not been in Japan as long has it has been in Europe. These changes will be felt more in the East than the West, I think.”

“The East has already survived me,” said Pope An with a slight chuckle.

“Women priests will not be…very welcome in Japan,” Cardinal Tsukamara said, taking care not to give offense.

Pope An restrained her first impulse, for the rivalry of China and Japan had no place in this meeting. She brought her feelings under control. “Possibly not at first, because they will be strange. But in time everyone will grow used to them, as they have grown used to women driving buses and running businesses.” Next she directed her gaze toward Cardinal Shumwoe. “What have you to say?”

Cardinal Shumwoe took a moment to answer. “There have been wise women among my people, but never priests. They have seen many women missionaries of all sorts, some of whom are ministers, but Protestants. Those who seek to be Christians and Catholics will have to decide if women priests can speak to God as well as men. Allowing priests to marry will be useful in Africa. It will trouble many Africans less if the priests are married. They do not understand men who do not have women.”

“Won’t this lead to complications for those priests who do not marry?” suggested Cardinal Lepescu. “There are already those who say that the priesthood attracts men who…are not attracted to women as men ought to be. I fear there are many who would be quick to assume an unmarried priest was homosexual.”

Cardinal van Hooven rose impatiently. “Good God in Heaven! Are we to forbid marriage to all priests so that those who prefer celibacy will not be branded homosexuals? What of the priests who are homosexuals? Are we to demand they leave the priesthood? What is the sense of that?”

“More of what we’ve been hearing for over a century, as supposed reasons for maintaining an iniquitous system,” said Cardinal Cadini. “Before they came up with other excuses.” He turned to Pope An, beaming at her and holding out one hand in his familiar gesture of approval. “I don’t care what the rest of them think: I am completely in favor of what you are doing, Holiness, and I will say so to the world, if you like.”

Pope An’s eyes met his. “Thank you, Cardinal Cadini,” she said.

“But what is the point of all this? It will only baffle our people and make them doubt the Church,” Cardinal Belleau proclaimed.

There were a few words of assent, and Cardinal Ygnacio made an angry fist.

Pope An looked at them. “You have brought me here. You were the ones who elected me. I did not come without invitation, or because I sought it. But since you were determined to have me, I have taken on the work of ridding your Church of those things which are not part of the teachings of your Jesus. That is what you expected me to do, isn’t it? You have said your faith is based on His word, and that my position is intended to preserve His Church according to His word. That is my guide for all I have decided and will decide in future.” She indicated her Bull once again. “Tomorrow when I speak to the newspeople, I hope you will see fit to withhold your questions until I am finished.”

“And when you are finished, I’ll endorse what you say wholeheartedly,” said Cardinal Cadini at once.

Cardinal Bakony got to his feet, approaching her carefully. “I wish you’d reconsider, Your Holiness. I think we all need time to reflect. I would like time to pray for guidance.”

“I have reflected, and I have the authority to guide you,” said Pope An. “I have read the various works that report what your Jesus said, including those that have been excluded from your Bible on the grounds that they are not appropriate to the Church. I have realized that there are many areas where the Church has drifted from the intentions of your Jesus.”

Cardinal Lepescu swore softly. “This is just the beginning, then?”

“The beginning? It could be the end,” said Cardinal Tsukamara darkly.

“It seems to me,” said Willie Foot suddenly from his place in the far corner of the room, “that most people will be relieved, Protestants as well as Catholics. Most Catholics think that the Church is unreceptive and uncaring, out of step with the world and unwilling to adapt. They depend on their priests, but fear that the priests themselves have been hampered by the hierarchy of the Church. This could change their minds.”

“Does it change yours?” demanded Cardinal Belleau.

“I don’t know,” said Willie candidly. “But lapsed Catholics are going to be the hardest group to reach, and I’m one of them.” He gave Pope An thumbs-up. “I don’t know why you think you still need me, Holiness. You’re doing just fine on your own.”

She answered him in Chinese, and he grew thoughtful.

“What did she say?” asked Cardinal Bakony as he started toward the door.

Willie looked at Pope An for permission; when she nodded, he translated, “She said—roughly—that chickens don’t fly into an empty cooking pot because the farmer is hungry.”

* * *

“Oh, my friends, I am filled with terrible foreboding,” Reverend Dean Marcus said to the camera that faced him in his walnut-paneled study. “I warned you when the Catholic Church brought that Communist Chinese woman to Rome that this was the beginning of the Last Days. In seventeen months the Second Millennium will be upon us, and we are warned that before Christ comes again, there will be the Antichrist. I see the danger before me as the fiery pit. It is in Revelations, and good men through the centuries have read those words with fear of the wrath of God. They saw what calamity the Catholic Church could bring to all of Christianity. And that time is come now. As we near the blessed year Two Thousand, when the Antichrist shall rise and fall and God will send the Second Coming.”

Music welled, underlining Reverend Marcus’ fervid address.

“Now we hear that this travesty of a Pope has lifted the rule of celibacy from the clergy, permitting Catholic priests to marry. We know that the rule of celibacy is a lie that the Catholic Church has forced on its people to control them and to keep the clergy from being able to minister properly to families. Yet after insisting on celibacy, this Chinese woman has stopped it. One letter, three-hundred-and-twenty-eight words long, and it’s ended. But does this mean relief, or is it something else? This ruling cuts at the very heart of the Roman Catholic dogma. The strictures against marriage have always demanded that Catholic priests be very dedicated; their idolatrous Church has been determined that the quality of men who uphold its teaching be of strong character. Now, thanks to this Chinese Communist, there is nothing to stop the most depraved of Catholics from entering the priesthood. Marriage will be allowed, and men who have no business entering the priesthood will undertake it for the access it will give them to foolish women.”

The lighting was adjusted so that Reverend Marcus was caught in a halo of white and amber.

“How many times have I described to you the abuses of the confessional, where damned sinners are at the mercy of priests to be given some hope of salvation? Now there are more reasons to fear, for married men will not have the oath of celibacy to counter their animal desires, spurred on by the confessions of adulterous women. What will keep them from committing the very sin they hear confessed? They will know that the women are capable of such sins, and will use that knowledge to seduce them to further sin.” He opened the huge Bible on the desk before him. “How many times does the Good Book tell us that men are full of sin and that the flesh of women is a snare and a prison?”

His background music welled. “I say that those of true Christian faith know the signs that signal the return of Christ to Earth again. How can we watch the destruction of our ancient adversary, the Roman Catholic Church, and not see God’s Plan in every disastrous decision this woman makes?”

Cardinal Mendosa cocked his head to the side as he watched the telecast. “What a delightful ol’ boy he is,” he said to his visitor.

Sally Wentworth of the Dallas Courier shook her head. “He’s been after your Pope An for the last week, ever since she came out in favor of priests marrying and women being priests.”

“Oh, it’s more than ‘came out in favor’, Sally. You make it sound like a Sierra Club endorsement, and that doesn’t describe it at all. Pope An has issued a Papal Bull, and that’s a couple orders of magnitude heavier than coming out in favor.” He leaned back in his chair. “I wish I could’ve been there to hear what the Cardinals had to say when she told them.”

“For the record?” Sally asked, her little tape-recorder at the ready.

“Oh, sure,” said Cardinal Mendosa at once. “Spread it all over the wire services, for all I care. I want everyone in Texas to know I’m all for Pope An. I’ve said so all along.” He had spent the night caught up in glorious visions, and had enough euphoria left over to be expansive with the press.

On the screen, Reverend Marcus was beginning to enumerate the various dangers of women priests, including the danger of contaminating the Host during menstruation.

“That’s medieval,” said Sally.

Cardinal Mendosa sighed in exasperated agreement. “Now that’s what I don’t understand about that fella. He’s been after the Church for relegating her women to a subservient position, and now that Pope An’s done something about it, he’s screaming like a pig in a hornet’s nest.”

“Can I quote you?” Sally inquired sweetly.

Cardinal Mendosa swung around to look at her. “Much as I’d like it, you better not. You can say that first part, but leave out the pig.” He stretched out his long legs. “I’m going back to Rome next week. You knew that, didn’t you.”

“Yes,” she said. “How do you feel about it?”

“Invigorated,” said Cardinal Mendosa at once. He had been delaying his departure for almost a week in order to handle some of the reaction to Pope An’s first Bull; Americans were sure to have a very public, very mixed reaction. But his visions had grown stronger and he wanted to return to the Vatican. He saw that Sally was waiting for clarification. “This is a very exciting time in the Church. But I’m a little uncertain, not about Pope An, but about the Church because we don’t know what impact these changes are going to have. Sure, this is quite a novelty, but we can handle it. I’m sure it’ll benefit everyone in the long run. For all the questions and phone calls I’ve had, I think Houston is ready for the changes Pope An has mandated in her Bull.”

“Can you explain to me about a Papal Bull?” Sally put her recorder right on the Cardinal’s desk where he could see it.

“There’s been no end of material about it in the press and the evening news, but sure, I’ll do what I can to explain it. A Papal Bull is a kind of declaration, expressed as a letter. It is used for doctrinal matters, decrees of canonization—that means being made a saint, not fired out of a gun—and for ecclesiastical discipline. Papal Jubilees are announced in Papal Bulls. The Bull is sealed with the Fisherman’s Ring, making it official that the policy comes in direct line from Saint Peter. Something like changing the rules of the priesthood requires a Papal Bull to be official.” He looked at the screen again. “What Reverend Marcus and his ilk are trying to say is that the Church isn’t permitted to change policy at the Pope’s whim, even though that is precisely what a Papal Bull allows. Except that this Bull isn’t a whim, it’s the very base of Papal authority: it gives the Pope the power to act as God wills. Most Popes don’t settle for that inspiration alone, and this one is more careful than most. Pope An has consulted with the Curia and many of the College of Cardinals, including myself, and members of the laity, but her decisions are her own.”

“…what souls will be lost because women are not ready to take on the burdens of being priests?” Reverend Marcus’ words were distinct in the silence that followed Cardinal Mendosa’s explanation.

“How do you feel about that? About women being priests?” asked Sally Wentworth, taking advantage of what the Reverend had said.

“I think it’s long since time. I know half a dozen women, all good and faithful Catholic women, who want to administer the sacraments, and would do so with more love and reverence than some of the men I’ve seen doing the job.” He waved one hand. “I better soften that a little for the paper. Just leave in the love and reverence part. Take out what I said about men. I don’t want half the priests in this Archdiocese accusing me of meaning them.”

Sally shut off the tape recorder. “What’s it like, really, having this great a change take place?”

Cardinal Mendosa shook his head. “I know you. You’ll write it down later. Go ahead. Turn the damned thing back on and I’ll tell you.” He waited while she did this. “We’ve been getting a couple thousand phone calls each day since the Bull was promulgated. They’re running about two to one in favor, and I’m not pulling those figures out of the air. If you go by the office, they’ll give you a print-out of all the calls logged. There are some people who are worried about it, and a few of them are scared by the likes of Reverend Marcus and others who are beating the same drum. But for the most part, even those callers who identify themselves as non-Catholics want to endorse what Pope An has said. I’m very encouraged by that. It’ll please me to tell the Pope about it when I’m back in Rome.”

On the screen three telephone numbers—one for the United States, one for Europe, one for Africa—flashed on the screen.

“Do you think the Pope has any other…developments in the works?” asked Sally.

This time Cardinal Mendosa shook his finger at her. “Oh, no you don’t. I’m not the Pope, and I’m not at liberty to discuss what she and I may or may not have talked about in private.”

“But you do think there’ll be more changes,” Sally persisted.

“I think there’s a very good chance,” he said carefully. “But what they are and when they’ll come, I don’t know. And you better put that in your article if there’s going to be any speculation included.” He pressed a button and the television screen went blank. “Off the record, I know I ought to keep up with what the various televangelists are saying, but I can only stomach so much of them and then I’ve got to quit for a while.”

“Are those broadcasts creating any problems for you?” She held up the recorder to indicate it was an official question.

“Directly, no; indirectly, yes. We’ve had some pretty unsavory letters and phone calls about the Pope, most of it from extreme Fundamentalists. And I am not one of those who thinks that extreme and Fundamentalist are the same thing. With the number of followers those preachers have, it would be odd if they weren’t having some impact.” He got up and strode down the fine oriental carpet to the windows overlooking the flank of the Four Evangelists Cathedral. “There’s a lot of four-square Fundamentalists in this part of the world, and they’re the ones who are supporting men like Reverend Marcus. They also listen to preachers like Robert Williamson, and Harold Patton. Those men have enormous audiences. Millions of people watch them. So when Marcus or Williamson takes off after the Pope, we hear about it.” He strode back toward her. “I’m not saying they haven’t a right to speak their minds—the Constitution guarantees them that, and that’s fine with me—but there are days when I question their reasons for taking out after the Church the way they do.”

“You’re not saying the Church is beyond criticism, are you, Your Eminence?” Sally asked with an impish smile.

“Not for a second. The Church is fallible, because everyone in it is human. Error is part of the game when you’re human. But the demonic conspiracy theory of the Roman Catholic Church strikes me as a little far-fetched. Maybe it’s because I’m on the inside looking out, but I hope that the demons are better organized than we are.” It was a good note for the end of the interview and both of them knew it. He opened his hands and closed them slowly.

“Thanks, Cardinal Mendosa,” said Sally for the record, then shut the recorder off. “Thanks. Really.”

“You’re welcome. Really,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Did you get what you want?”

“Enough to keep my editor happy for a couple days. He’s got Reverend Patton in his own backyard, up there in Dallas. Every day there’s something about the Antichrist and all the rest of it.” She picked up her recorder and stuffed it into her large leather bag. “Lately he’s been after the environmentalists, because they don’t trust God enough to leave the planet to Him.”

“Um,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Did he forget that along with being made masters of the Garden, Adam and Eve were made its custodians as well?” He shook his head. “Let’s not get started on that. I hope you have someone who can answer him chapter for verse. It’s sad, but that’s how you have to reach the people who follow him.” He indicated the door. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

As they reached the door, Sally turned back to him. “Off the record, does that end of celibacy for priests apply to all priests?”

Cardinal Mendosa regarded her with curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“Well, is every Catholic priest now permitted to marry if he wants to?” she asked.

“That’s what the Pope said,” Cardinal Mendosa reminded her.

“Okay then, what about Bishops?” Her eyes lit up. “Or—”

“Cardinals?” he finished for her. “Theoretically it would be possible, I suppose.” He shook his head as he saw her gear up for more questions. “Not yet, young lady. You have a deadline to meet, and I have a family dinner to attend. I give you my word that if the occasion ever arises, I will let you know at once. Will that do?” He was already anticipating far more relentless questions from his brothers and sisters, to say nothing of nephews and nieces. No journalist, not the most purple or yellow, could compare with the tenacity of his own family.

“I guess it’ll have to,” said Sally, accepting this gracefully, and permitting the subject to change to Quarterhorses and rodeos as they went toward the side entrance.

Once the reporter was gone, Cardinal Mendosa made his way back to his office to complete his promised, despised report to Dmitri Karodin.

* * *

Commander Alphonse Bouleau of Interpol faced Captains Christopher Hafen and Enrique Sigura of the European Economic Community Police Agency across the expanse of his cluttered desk. “We’ve had those letters, too,” he admitted as the two Eurocops held out a folder to him.

“The writer seems fairly certain of his facts,” said Hafen in a neutral tone.

“Enough of them have been leaked into the press,” said Bouleau, staring up at the ceiling as if for inspiration. “The first ones we had were not so specific. I’ll show you the file if you like.”

“That would be appreciated,” said Sigura. He was doing his best to appear at ease, but the nervous way he flicked his fingers gave him away. “Is there any report from Vatican security?”

“We’ve talked to them,” said Bouleau vaguely. “We keep in contact. They haven’t had any letters like these. Or if they have,” he amended conscientiously, “they haven’t mentioned them to us.”

“I doubt they would, all things considered,” said Hafen. “To accuse the new Pope of poisoning Cardinal Tayibha…well, it’s a dangerous thing to do.”

“Yes,” said Bouleau. It was warm in Milan and the office air conditioning was not working very well. Bouleau wiped his brow with his wilted linen handkerchief. “Yes, it is. According to the letters we have, that’s why the writer refuses to sign the letters.” He folded his hands. “We have asked Vatican security to get us samples of the handwriting of everyone there it can. Dionigi Stelo is cooperating with us, but reluctantly. He doesn’t like the idea that someone there could be making such claims.”

“That shouldn’t surprise you,” said Hafen, tucking his file back in his leather case. There was a shine of sweat on his brow but he appeared unfazed by the stuffy warmth of the office. “It’s a delicate business, working with the Church. We are not part of the Vatican staff, and we don’t like it, either.” He was able to keep his face expressionless but there was a distaste in his eyes that gave him away.

Bouleau got up from his chair and indicated the door. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you what we have, including the handwriting samples we have obtained to date.” He went ahead of them down the narrow hall. “We’ve been told to handle this very discreetly. It’s bad enough that we haven’t been able to make an arrest, but under the circumstances, our authority—” He flung up his right hand. “The Vatican is its own country. Interpol can operate there, but only on tolerance.”

“Which isn’t easily given,” said Sigura. He nodded to a young Inspector going down the hall in the opposite direction. “Nevertheless, it can be embarrassing to have the Indian government demanding the murderer be caught.”

“They’re doing their job,” said Bouleau with resignation. He stopped at a large, metal-banded door. “The records are in here.” He punched in his code for access. “Computer terminals have passwords; some of them have several passwords. If you want to use one, ask me before you try.” With that he went through into the enormous room where the Milan division of Interpol’s files were kept.

“Quite an installation,” said Sigura with the first sign of real approval. “We’re trying to get a larger capacity computer for our Rome offices. Something on this scale would be very good.” He and Hafen followed Bouleau down the ranks of computer terminals toward the serried ranks of file cabinets.

“We’ve been asking for more links to other agency computers,” said Bouleau, pleased that they could indulge in a little shop talk.

“That sounds sensible,” said Hafen. “We’ve been expanding our links. The Scandinavian Security Agency has agreed to go on-line with us. So has the FBI.”

“And the CIA?” asked Bouleau with a bitter smile.

“Of course not,” said Hafen. “But we expected that when we asked.” He stood when Bouleau held up his hand.

“This is what we’ve got,” he said as he unlocked one of the long file cabinet drawers. “If you need copies, we’ll obtain the necessary clearances.”

Sigura shook his head. “If the handwriting is the same, we shouldn’t need copies unless we go to court.”

“That’s not something I’m looking forward to,” said Bouleau. “A court appearance in a case like this.…”

“Would the appearance be at the Vatican?” asked Sigura. “Or would it be in Rome?”

Bouleau shook his head. “I don’t think about it. We’ll have to determine that if we ever have a trial.” He pulled out three folders and put them on the nearest table. “Here. These were the first.”

The two Eurocops bent over the table and drew out the first letter.

“Same sort of paper,” said Hafen as he drew his file out of his case again. He laid one of the letters from his file next to the first letter in the Interpol files.

To the Interpol investigators assigned to the murder of Jivin, Cardinal Tayibha:

I have been part of the Vatican staff for a period of years and I must inform you that in the capacity of my office I have been able to observe many factors involved in the death of the Cardinal. For the peace of my soul, I must tell you of what I have seen.

Prior to serving the tea that poisoned the Cardinal, I noticed the Chinese woman handling the pot and cups. It is my conviction that she was putting the poison into the pot herself, and that the death of the Cardinal was deliberate murder intended to make it appear that she was the target of the crime.

I beg you to question this woman. She is guilty. I stake my eternal salvation on it.

I cannot sign my name. I fear for my life if I do.

“They grow more insistent,” said Bouleau. “This is mild.”

“What did you do when you received it?” asked Hafen.

“Put it with some of the other accusatory letters. I’ll be pleased to let you see some of the others, if you want to compare them. We’d already run fingerprint and DNA tests on the teapot and cups, and it is true that Pope An handled them, but so did several other people.” Bouleau sighed. “Then we received a second letter, in the same hand, being more specific in his accusations.”

“You believe that a man wrote this?” asked Sigura, perusing the letter.

“It seems likely,” said Bouleau. “Our handwriting experts have said that the handwriting is probably a man’s. At the Vatican, if the writer actually has a position of the level he implies, then it is very likely—”

“A man,” finished Hafen. “Yes, that’s what our experts have said, as well.” He frowned. “Our letter looks as if it were written faster.”

“Or the writer is growing more nervous,” said Sigura, straightening up. “As you can see”—he held out the letter they had received—“the man is threatening to take his accusations to the press if we do nothing.”

Bouleau nodded. “That was what our most recent letter said, as well.” He leaned back against the table. “There have been enough ludicrous speculations in the press. If this writer starts adding his voice to the rest.…” He looked away.

“Is there any progress on finding the writer?” asked Sigura, picking up another of the letters at random.

“We’re comparing samples,” said Bouleau. “That’s about all we can do directly. Vatican Security isn’t willing to let us undertake the kind of investigation we’d like. They’re cooperating, but.…”

“We have similar experiences with them,” said Hafen. He put their letter away once more. “We have samples of handwriting of many of the Vatican staff on file,” he said, a question hidden in his statement.

“How complete is it?” asked Bouleau with careful interest.

“We have most of the officials there, and a large number of the regular staff.” Hafen hesitated. “We also have samples of the handwriting of seventy-one of the Cardinals.”

Bouleau pushed off the table. “You’re not suggesting that the letter writer might be one of the Cardinals.”

“It’s a possibility,” said Hafen. “If you are to do a serious investigation, then you must recognize that some of the Cardinals have the strongest reasons for wanting to implicate the Pope.”

Bouleau felt that the room had suddenly grown much warmer. “Surely none of them would be so irresponsible—” He stopped.

“Exactly,” said Sigura. “None of us wants to think that men in their position could possibly do this. But the history of the Papacy is full of treachery and violence. We all know that many of the Cardinals dislike this Chinese woman, and of their number, a few are bound to be trying to discredit her. The Protestants aren’t the only ones who would gain if she were disgraced.” He tapped one of the letters on the table. “If you want us to provide you copies of the handwriting?”

“You haven’t made the comparisons yet?” asked Bouleau, suddenly fearing that he might be required to take responsibility for what the Eurocops had discovered and not wanted to reveal themselves.

“We’ve eliminated about two thousand staff members,” said Hafen. “That leaves us with the higher-ranking officials.”

“And the Cardinals,” said Bouleau. The back of his neck was soaking.

“Seventy-one of them.” Sigura put his hand flat on the table next to the most recent letter. “We’re wasting time, covering the same ground twice when it isn’t necessary at all.”

Bouleau stared at the letter. “Pope An makes tea for herself several times a day. Everyone in the Vatican must know that by now. She serves tea to her guests.”

“It’s a Chinese custom,” said Sigura.

“To say that she handled the cups and the pot means nothing,” said Bouleau. “But if the press should believe this letter writer and decide that the Pope was poisoning her own tea—”

Hafen made a discreet cough. “None of us wants to accuse a Prince of the Church of such a crime. But neither do we want the Pope accused of the act.”

Bouleau capitulated. “Send over your samples. If we match any of the handwriting, your agency and mine can announce it together.”

“Perhaps,” said Sigura, “if there is a match, we ought to discuss it with Vatican Security before we say anything to the press.”

“Yes,” said Bouleau gratefully. “That would be best.”

Chapter 23

“Why is it,” asked Cardinal Mendosa as he strolled up to Martin Bell in the Piazza Venezia, “that every time you contact me, you won’t allow me to include our mutual friend Vitale in our conversations?”

Bell hesitated, his smile slipping a bit at the corners. “I wasn’t aware that you wanted him to.…” He left this hanging.

“That I wanted him to know that his Hungarian-American colleague is working with the KGB? And that I am sending regular reports to Dmitri Karodin?” asked Cardinal Mendosa sharply, watching for Bell’s reaction.

“Yes,” said Bell with as much self-containment as he could muster.

Cardinal Mendosa nodded. “You’re afraid that his famed liberality doesn’t extend that far.” He shoved his hand into his pocket where he had put his lapel pin. “I suppose you’re right. Hell, I’m dead sure you’re right. But I would like it if there were someone—other than you, yourself, Professor Bell—who knew. This isn’t the kind of thing I tell my Confessor, not these days. It’d be on the mid-evening news if I did.” He let Bell set the pace as they went east along the Via Battisti toward the Via Nazionale.

“It could be a problem,” said Bell, not knowing how else to comment.

“Not only could, Doctor; would.” Cardinal Mendosa glanced over his shoulder. He knew they were not followed, but he was nervous. “We’ve had enough riots already. We don’t need to give an excuse for more.” And, he added to himself, he would destroy the trust Zhuang had for him, which would be incalculably worse than having his name bandied about in the newsmedia. He made himself get to the point. “You’d better inform the puppet-master that Pope An has received another letter from Premier Zuo. I’ll send him a report, but it isn’t due for a while. It arrived yesterday, I think, possibly the day before. She gave it to Willie after she read it. He’s supposed to make a translation for me, very private.”

Startled, Martin Bell thought this over. “Is this the first time the Premier has written to her?”

“No. There have been four other letters.” The Cardinal paused to watch two harried women attempt to stop their various offspring from getting into a fight. Three of the children were determined to have at it anyway.

“How does she get them?” asked Bell. “They don’t come by courier, do they? I haven’t heard anything about the Chinese sending—”

“Probably part of the way, but not as far as Rome,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “As long as there are no diplomatic relations between the Vatican and the PRC, it isn’t easy to get through. My own guess is that Cardinal Lepescu or Cardinal Bakony brings them to her. Hungary and Romania have a few ties to China, and some hard-line old Communists left in important posts in both countries.” He thought about it for a few more steps. “Cardinal Tayibha might have given her the first one, but—”

“Yes; I suppose we can rule him out,” said Bell. He regarded Cardinal Mendosa with curiosity. “If you are so troubled by Karodin, why do you continue to send him reports?”

“You know the answer to that,” said Cardinal Mendosa at his most reasonable. “I told you: I gave him my word.”

“But surely that—” He went silent, knowing he would never understand the rangy Texan. He tried again. “Under the circumstances—”

“I knew the circumstances when I gave my word.” Then Cardinal Mendosa was quiet for several paces. “There were riots again in Belfast and Liege,” he said.

“About the Papal Bull?” Bell had not paid much attention to the news of the last two days; he was completing a monograph which took up most of his attention.

“Yes. They weren’t as bad as the ones in Mexico City and Bogota and Paris, but bad enough. Nowhere near as bad as the one in Sao Paolo last week. That’s been one of the four worst. Anyway. Several hundred arrests in Belfast, a couple of deaths, lots of people in the hospital.” He watched a taxi barrel along the street, horn blaring, bound for the train station. “Liege reports no deaths, but there were lots of broken windows and wrecked cars. The courthouse—the big one that looks like a train station—was pretty well trashed. Cardinal Sclamonde left for Liege this morning. Vatican Security advised against it, but he says they’re his people, and he’s their representative in the Church.” He smiled a little. “I’m starting to like ol’ Jules.”

“Don’t these riots bother you?” Bell asked, at last caught up in what the Cardinal from Houston was saying.

“Sure. Damn right they bother me,” Cardinal Mendosa answered at once, his tone slightly affronted. “They bother ’most all of us.”

“But you don’t suggest to the Pope that she…modify her decisions?” Bell suggested carefully.

“It’s not my place to do that,” he said at once. “It’s my job to support her.” They crossed the street at the Piazza della Repubblica to the Museo Nazionale Romano.

“A few of the Cardinals seem to have forgotten that,” Bell said.

Cardinal Mendosa did not respond at once. When he did, he had no emotion at all in his voice. “That has to be between their souls and God. In the world, we are asked to place our faith in the Pope.”

“And that’s what you’re doing,” said Bell.

“As God is my witness,” said Cardinal Mendosa simply.

A crocodile of French school-children made the two men move aside. Four teachers called out sharp instructions to their charges; one had a high, shrill voice that cut through the most blaring traffic noise.

“I had a teacher like that once,” said Cardinal Mendosa quietly as the children made their way to the entrance of the Museo. “Sister James. She could have etched glass calling roll.”

Now that they were stopped, Bell pulled Cardinal Mendosa aside, nearer the building. “About these letters. What do you want me to tell…our friend?”

“Friend, is it?” said Cardinal Mendosa with cynicism that startled Bell. “He ought to know about the letters.”

“Do you know what they contain?” said Bell, wanting to know more.

“I know that two of the last letters included Premier Zuo’s comments on the reaction of Catholics all over the world to Pope An’s election, broadly suggesting that if it should become too difficult or if she decided to give it up, it would be possible for her to come home. There were also a few recommendations of things she ought to be doing in the Church that would benefit both the Church and China.” He looked down at the pointed toes of his boots. “So far she hasn’t answered any of them.”

“Ah,” said Martin Bell. He went on uncertainly. “And has she done any of those things Zuo recommended?”

“Not in the way he did. A few of the things she has considered are not only consistent with what Jesus taught, they’re in accord with Communist precepts. Zuo did say something about the rules of the Church regarding property and…plunder being out-moded.” Cardinal Mendosa looked away, toward Santa Maria degli Angeli. “Not that some of the changes she might make wouldn’t look pretty much like to Communism to the more conservative Catholics, given the current state of world politics.”

“Then you expect something?” asked Bell, hearing a change in Cardinal Mendosa’s voice that piqued his interest.

“Oh, I expect something. I don’t know what it is. But if Pope An wants to guide the Church by what Our Lord taught, there’s going to be a lot of singed feathers in the world.” He shook his head once.

Bell waited, and when Cardinal Mendosa said nothing more, he inquired, “Is there anything you’d like me to say to?…”

“Whatever you think he ought to know. I don’t want him saying that I haven’t held up my part of this damned bargain. I told you what’s going on, and you can take it from there. You’re the expert.” He made a swift, apologetic gesture for the contempt he had shown. “It’s not you, Bell. I’m not…I hate doing this. No offence to you, Professor, but I despise what I’m doing.”

“It’s the hazard of the work, Eminence,” said Bell, hitching up his shoulder. “You learn to live with it.”

“Do you?” said Cardinal Mendosa.

* * *

Dame Leonie was astonished to see that Sir Arthur had bleached his hair so that it was almost white. She indicated the leather-covered sofa in front of the marble cocktail table, while trying to think of something to say to her husband now that she had remarked on his hair.

“It hides the grey, and it makes my tan look darker,” said Arthur, sitting down and draping his arms across the back cushions. He was dressed in white, a loose, expensive white linen suit with a shirt of mustard-yellow silk, and his pocket handkerchief was a square of olive-and-magenta. His loafers were camel-colored leather. “At my age, it’s wiser.”

She was rarely at a loss for words, but now Leonie could think of nothing to say. She picked up a small hand-bell and rang for her housekeeper. “What can I offer you in the way of refreshment, Arthur? It’s a little early for supper, but Italian high tea?”

Luisa Fuomo answered the summons, her brisk stride faltering once as she recognized the caller; her curiosity kept her moving. No one in Dame Leonie’s household had ever seen her husband except in the obligatory photograph on her desk. “What is it, Madame?”

“My guest…my husband would like.…” She looked at Arthur, expecting a hint. “What would you like?”

“Gin with something in it. Not vermouth. Perhaps a few sandwiches to soak it up. As you say, Italian high tea. I haven’t had anything to eat since eight this morning.” He waved Luisa away, paying the woman no attention. He smiled with a full display of teeth. “If that doesn’t ruin all your evening plans, Leonie.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she said, trying to remain calm. She knew these polite, acidic moods of Arthur’s and did not relish dealing with another one.

“I mean, with the Vatican demanding your services and all, you might not be able to make time for a mere husband.” Again the flash of teeth. “Especially this husband.”

“Pope An hasn’t requested my presence until tomorrow,” said Dame Leonie, sitting very straight in her favorite art nouveau chair.

“At which time you’ll do what for her?” asked Sir Arthur nastily.

Dame Leonie folded her hands in lap. “I suppose you know that as well as the rest of the world. No one has kept it secret. I will advise her about questions on international matters. That is what I’ve been appointed to do.” She knew better than to argue with him; that was what Arthur wanted her to do.

“Very fortunate position for you, dear wife. But we’re told that fortune favors them who favor themselves. I suppose it was something you arranged as part of getting her out of the People’s Republic.” His implication was deliberately nasty.

With an effort of will, Leonie did not rise to the bait. “I was as surprised as anyone when Pope An sent for me. I had done what I supposed my duty was when I was asked to assist in the negotiations for her…visa.”

“How noble of you,” approved Sir Arthur in such a way that Dame Leonie wished she could throw something at him. “But I find it a little unconvincing. You can’t seriously mean that you neglected such an opportunity when it was presented to you. A diplomatic post new in the world, unique, and you are asked to fill it, with all the formidable statesmen available to the Church? I’m not quite so naive as all that, my dear. Surely there were others, more qualified than you, to assist the…ah…Pope.”

This time Leonie’s temper flashed. “Not many who speak Chinese, English, Italian, French, and Russian, know China and have direct personal contact with Pope An,” she countered. She bit back her diplomatic credentials; that would be playing Arthur’s game.

Arthur went on as if she had not spoken. “And I suppose no one objects to your being Anglican instead of Roman?” His expression was sweet; a casual observer might assume he was making polite conversation.

Leonie knew better. “I don’t have to account to you, not for this, not for anything.”

“Of course you do. I’m your husband.” The gloss of his smile faded a little. “Which is one of the reasons I thought it best that you and I have a discussion.” He swung one leg over the other. “Before things go too far. I’ve been hearing a few disturbing rumors in the last few weeks. It’s all part of that priests-marrying Bull of hers, I suppose. But I am concerned, my dear.”

She forced her hands not to close into fists. “About what, Arthur?”

“Why, this…speculation that she might be intending to permit divorces for Catholics. Not annulments, but actual divorces.” He snorted. “Like Protestants and all the others.”

“I’m not privy to Her Holiness’ decisions,” said Leonie, suddenly very nervous.

“Not even speaking Chinese and all that?” Arthur marveled. “To hear the news, one would think that she couldn’t make a move without you or that Foot fellow, or that ridiculous Texan holding her hand.”

“You know better than to rely on the news,” said Leonie, doing her best to maintain her composure. This was becoming more of a trial than she had thought possible. After all these months, how could Arthur demand so much of her, and make her feel she owed him anything?

“In certain situations, that’s true.” He stared at her. “But divorce. That’s something I have to be wary of.”

“You might be wary of annulment, Arthur, and that’s already permitted,” said Leonie, more sharply than she wanted. “The Church would grant one in our case, don’t you agree?”

“It’s possible, I’ll give you that. If you had been unaware of my…preferences, and had complained shortly after we married, perhaps. And had you been willing to sacrifice your career to the embarrassment that would result. But we’ve been married how long now? Fifteen, sixteen years? More? Something like that. Anyway, my dear, speaking up now, in your current circumstances here in Rome, when you have been willing to go along with me for so long—that smacks of opportunism, and I don’t suppose the government would like it very much if one of His Majesty’s ambassadors were to create the sort of public outcry that—”

“Arthur,” said Leonie, maintaining the same utter correctness that she strove for when caught up in international negotiations, “you came to my house. I have invited you in as a guest. Please let’s leave it on that footing, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m not your guest, I’m your husband,” he reminded her, delighted at her behavior.

“You don’t live here. Ergo, you are my guest,” she said firmly. “And Luisa will be bringing in your refreshments. I don’t think you want her to overhear your remarks, do you?”

“Gossip in the servants’ quarters?” he inquired. “Even here, in the shadow of Saint Peter’s?”

“You’re the one who has always insisted that we observe good conduct where servants are concerned. I’ve taken your lesson to heart.” She thought of Hastings and Sanderson, still back in Hong Kong, and wished she had been allowed to bring them with her. Both of them were well-aware of the relationship between Dame Leonie and Sir Arthur and both had been reliably discreet.

Arthur chuckled. “A truce for the housekeeper. All right.” He tossed back his head and stared up at the plasterwork on the ceiling. “About 1905, I’d reckon.”

“A little earlier,” she said, her words tight with tension.

“Beautiful.” For once there was no snide undertone to the compliment. “Can you imagine what it would cost to have someone do a job like that today? You’d need the wealth of Croesus.”

Luisa came through the archway from the dining room. She carried a tray with glasses and cocktail ingredients. When she put this down, she said, “I’ll bring sandwiches and cheese directly, Madame.” She glanced over at Sir Arthur. “I’ve taken the liberty of bringing several mixers. Please select the one you prefer.”

Arthur made a gesture intended to dismiss Luisa. “You can choose something for me, my dear,” he said to Leonie.

But Luisa stood her ground. She looked directly at Dame Leonie. “Is that all, Madame?”

Gratefully Leonie said, “For the moment, I think so, yes. Make sure you bring a plate of savory pastries with the cheeses. Thank you.”

Once the housekeeper was gone, Arthur cocked his head. “How do you manage with her?”

“I have the use of a butler when it’s required, and a cook when I’m entertaining. Life here is quite simple, Arthur, though I imagine you won’t believe it. There are few occasions for me to entertain, and very rarely lavishly. Most of the major functions I attend are under the auspices of the Vatican; I don’t need an extensive staff.” She moved forward in her chair. “What can I mix for you? I see Luisa has provided two kinds of gin.”

“You’ve trained her very well,” said Arthur, not abandoning his expansive pose. “The Bombay, if you please, and what is that vile-looking pink juice?”

“Guava,” said Leonie, determinably affable. “If that’s satisfactory?”

“Go ahead,” he said negligently. “I suppose you’re having some of that ghastly sherry you pretend to like?”

“Campari-and-soda,” she said. “I’ve developed a taste for it.” The glass she selected for him was narrow and tall. She put a small scoop of ice in it, then measured out a generous amount of gin—more than she usually served her guests for cocktails—and topped it off with guava nectar. Using one of the three long silver spoons Luisa had provided, she stirred the concoction and handed it over.

“Very well done,” he said, sneering as he took an experi-mental sip. “I should think you’re regarded as a liberal hostess?”

She did not deign to answer this. “Aside from the matter of the Church permitting divorce—and I can’t believe you came all the way from…wherever you were to find out about that. A telephone call would have been sufficient.”

“But then I would not have had the pleasure of your company.” He took a long drink this time and did not bother to set the glass down.

“So there’s something more.” She had no intention of saying that aloud, but once it was out she was relieved she had spoken. She poured out her Campari and reached for the soda. More than anything else at that moment she hoped her hands would not shake. She had no intention of giving him that satisfaction.

“Not exactly,” said Arthur, his eyes flicking over her face and then away. “I ought to have said something about your new post. I’ve been most remiss. I hadn’t realized how important your new position is—it’s been difficult to take it seriously you know. But that’s an oversight, and one I intend to remedy. It’s only fitting that I show a little support.”

She stopped the retort that sprang to her lips. “But why?”

He let his breath out slowly and took a long drink. “You’re very much in the news, my dear. Hardly a week goes by when there is no mention of you on the evening reports. I read that article about you in Elle. I must say I was surprised that the Pope countenanced it, but—” He hitched his head up. “Five pages of that magazine. It’s impressive. They give less to fashion designers. They made the comment that I had not been seen in your company of late. It seemed to me that it would be sensible to put in an appearance.”

“What do you mean?” asked Leonie, shocked out of her composure.

“I’ve come to lend you my visibility.” His smile was back in place. “That ought to put paid to those articles about your relationship with the Pope.”

“What articles are you talking about?” Leonie had got to her feet, her Campari-and-soda untasted.

“Oh, the ones in the underground press, for the most part. They’re speculative, and ill-founded, but they can do damage, in their way.” He finished his drink and leaned forward to make himself another.

“What are they saying?” demanded Leonie, knowing that she was being unwise to talk to Arthur this way.

“The usual sort of rot. You’re her lover, that sort of thing.” He put in a larger portion of gin than Leonie had given him. “I know that’s nothing more than sensationalism, and it could be stopped with a single writ. But more to the point, a few of them have made reference to me, and those innuendos cannot be stopped with a piece of paper.” He took a long sip. “So I think it is probably best, my dear, if I remain here a month or two, until the newsmedia—”

“No,” said Leonie, wondering where she had found the strength to defy him.

He looked at her. “I won’t be much of a bother, and you have my word that I’ll confine my adventures to places I know. There won’t be any occasion for questions to be asked that can’t be easily answered. All you need do is tell me when to get into the dinner jacket, and the rest of the time, you’ll be on your own. I’ll take care—”

“I said no, Arthur,” Leonie told him.

In the dining room archway Luisa paused, tray in hand. “Madame?” she asked, not knowing if she should intrude on what was clearly a difficult time.

Leonie turned to her housekeeper. “Oh. Yes. Please bring that in. We’ll be able to manage for ourselves then.”

“If that’s what you’d like,” said Luisa dubiously. She placed this tray beside the first, gave a quick, curious look at Dame Leonie, then went quickly out of the room.

“It must be difficult for her, leaving us alone; Italians do so love family disputes.” Arthur put his glass down and reached for one of the round crackers on the tray with the cheese. “I’ll repeat what I’ve said before: you must have trained her very well.”

“She’s a sensible woman who knows how to do her job,” said Leonie.

“Then she’ll be very useful to us, won’t she.” He smeared cheese on the cracker.

“Stop that,” said Leonie. “You aren’t going to be staying here and you are not going to take advantage of my servants. Period.”

“Don’t be absurd, Leonie, of course I am.” He popped the cracker in his mouth and chewed vigorously. “And you’re going to be overjoyed to have me.”

“No, I’m not,” said Leonie, sitting down once again. “I am not going to have you in my house.” She smoothed her skirt and looked directly at Arthur. “I’ve been willing to accept your absence for months and years at a stretch. But I am not going to permit you to come into my home and take up this ludicrous pretense of a marriage again. If you make the attempt, I promise you, I’ll speak to the newsmedia myself.”

Arthur shook his head. “And throw all this away? You know you won’t do it. I know you better than that. No matter what you say right now, you give yourself the night to think about it, and you’ll come around. You’ll know what’s best to do.” He selected another cracker and spread it with a different cheese. “Which room will be mine. I know we ought to share one, but I suppose that would be too distasteful to both of us.”

“You are not going to stay here. None of the rooms are for your use.” She had her rising temper under better control now and she was able to say this conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather or soccer scores.

He shook his head. “You talk it over with the Pope before you tell me what to do.” He showed his teeth again. “You decide after you have a word or two with her. Because I can make things bloody uncomfortable for you, and for her.”

“You are welcome to try,” said Leonie, suddenly feeling very much in control of this dreadful conversation. “I would prefer scandal to having to live under the same roof with you again.” Strange, she thought in a cool, still part of her mind, that all of Willie’s loving assurances could not bring her to take this step but Arthur’s contempt could.

He picked up his drink. “I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes day after tomorrow,” he said as he lifted his glass in toast to her. “Be it on your head, my dear.”

“And welcome,” she responded, inwardly pleased that she actually meant it.

* * *

Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme was thinner and considerably less polished looking than when he had left the Vatican six weeks before. His handsome features were blurred with fatigue and his dark suit was in need of pressing. He regarded the Cardinals gathered in the Pope’s office. “I suppose you’ve all read the report?”

“I’m afraid I don’t like the look of it,” said Cardinal Fiorivi.

“Nor do I.” He looked back at the Pope. “I’m afraid, Holiness, that the riots aren’t going to stop just because we want them to,” he said, and then addressed the other twenty Cardinals gathered in the Pope’s office. “Getting our people to listen—” He flung up his hands.

“Did you bring the other reports I asked for?” Pope An seemed unflustered by the distressing news. “I will need to have a better understanding of what problems are most pressing if I am to continue the reforms.”

Cardinal Gemme rounded on her. “Didn’t you hear me, Holiness? We’re already responsible for a number of deaths and untold amounts of destruction.”

“Yes, I heard you. And that suggests to me that these reforms are long overdue,” said Pope An, looking at each of the Cardinals in turn. “If wrongs and misbehavior had been corrected at the time it was required, there would be no cause for riots now. For I have been told that many of those rioting are those who profited from previous conditions and stand to lose some of their privilege from the order I am attempting to restore to the Church.”

This drove Cardinal Gemme to the brink of his patience. “Holiness,” he declared in exasperation, “no one seeks reforms more than I do. I am on record for years as supporting necessary reforms in the Church. No one is more committed to the abolition of Church abuses.”

“I can see that,” said Pope An, a faint smile in her eyes.

“But I don’t think that trying to do it all at once is the answer. We have too many people, too many groups to consider.” He fingered the crucifix tie-tack on his silk burgundy tie. “It may appear simple to you, Holiness. You need only mandate a thing and it is done. But you are—”

She cut him off. “Cardinal Gemme, you told me when I first came here that changes were needed desperately and quickly. You assured me you would support reforms that brought the Church back to the service of its worshippers. Yet now you tell me that you do not believe we should make these reforms.” She leaned back in her chair. “Cardinal Gemme, your Jesus did not promise earthly tranquility, but tranquility of soul.”

“But Your Holiness—” Cardinal Gemme protested.

“Who complains, Cardinal Gemme, and of what?” She watched him. “Those who have amassed fortunes at the expense of their fellow-citizens, and have done it in the name of religion? Are they the ones we hear most clearly because they are able to purchase the ear of the Church? What do the priests working with the poor have to say, or did you speak with them?”

“Holiness, that’s not fair. I’ve been seeing representatives of all groups and each one has complaints.” He looked at the other Cardinals. “Hasn’t this happened to all of you, as well?”

“I have received a growing flood of letters,” said Cardinal Lepescu. “Every Catholic is worried that his faith will leave him because of what the Vatican has been doing.”

“His faith?” said Pope An gently. “Cardinal Lepescu, what do the women say? What do the wives and mothers request? What have your nuns told you? Or are they too busy studying to become priests to address childish fears to one who has usurped the position of their fathers?”

Several of the men gasped, and Cardinal Damovich crossed himself.

“How do you mean, usurped the position of their fathers?” Cardinal Gemme did his best not to appear outraged.

“I speak very clearly,” said Pope An. “Priests even take that name. Their title is Father. We call monks Brother and nuns Sister, but consider—priests are called Father, and are given the power of reaching God on behalf of the man. And woman. This is most inappropriate.”

“Oh, no,” muttered Cardinal Damovich.

Pope An gave him a gentle smile. “Not yet, Eminence. But it would be best, you know, if we did not further confuse ourselves with titles that serve to confound the Catholics of the world. And do not tell me no such confusion exists, for you know that is not the case.”

Cardinal van Hooven spoke up. “She’s right, Eminences. There are Catholics in the world who remain perpetual emotional children because they are certain that to do otherwise is heretical.”

This was more than Cardinal Gemme could bear. “Holiness,” he said firmly, “I can’t impress upon you sternly enough that we are quickly reaching a crisis. It may not have been your intention to do this, but I wish you to believe that if you decide to make any other significant changes in the Church, you place the Church in gravest danger.”

“I believe you are being as truthful as you know how to be,” said Pope An. “And I have great respect for you. I admire your candor and your devotion, but I fear it is not your place to decide what I will and will not do. Those decisions are my own, and only my own. I will have to answer for everything I do, and therefore I must exercise my authority as best I can and as I see fit.” She motioned to one of the chairs. “Please. Sit down. I will arrange to confer with you tomorrow, when we can discuss at length all the particulars you have brought up in these reports.”

“But Holiness,” said Cardinal Gemme, hesitating, “I want to bring certain troubles to your attention.”

“And so you shall,” she promised him. “Tomorrow. For the time being, I wish you all to make note that I am about to issue an Encyclical.” She paid no heed to the suggestion of a groan that filled the room. “The Church has not always dealt in as good faith as it should, and it has taken into its control documents and artifacts that by right should be accessible to all the world. Therefore, I am about to open the Vatican Library to all accredited scholars for study in whatever manner they deem appropriate. We will lift the ban on the studies of the non-Christian works there, as well as the records of various Church activities that do not reflect well on the Church, as a show of sincere intent and respect.”

“Your Holiness, you don’t know what you’re doing,” protested Cardinal Ruhig.

“Oh, I think she does,” said Cardinal Mendosa from his place toward the back of the room.

“Keep out of this, Eminence,” growled Cardinal Damovich.

“On top of all the rest, Holiness,” said Cardinal Gemme urgently, “it will serve only to cause greater excitement. And at this time, I doubt the Church can take it upon herself to wash our dirty linen in public.”

“On the contrary,” said Pope An. “There is no better time to acknowledge the fallibility of the Church and the mistakes we have made, so that the world can see we have just and ample reasons to rectify the errors of the past.”

“And make worse ones now,” Cardinal Gemme retorted.

“Why, that is one view,” said Pope An, refusing to be flustered. “I want all of you to think about this for tonight. I plan to publish the Encyclical at noon day-after-tomorrow. I think it would be wisest to make full and accurate copies of some of the very early documents owned by the Church and release them as part of the Encyclical. There are a few documents from the first and second centuries which would be of interest to most of the Christian world. I intend that copies of these be made available to every newspaper, university and similar institution.”

“It will seem like an effort to distract the attention of the public from what you’re doing right now,” warned Cardinal Stevenson. “They’re suspicious enough as it is, Holiness.”

“Their suspicion is well-deserved, and we must be prepared to endure it. The world is used to the Catholic Church having ulterior purposes to its acts. Therefore it should not seem strange to any of you that it will take some time to restore trust in the Church.” She stood up. “There is a luncheon for you gentlemen waiting in the next room. I hope you are willing to join me.” She started toward the door, but was stopped by Cardinal Gemme, who rose in front of her.

“It isn’t right, Holiness. You’re exposing the Church to more censure than she has ever encountered before.” His handsome face looked chiseled with exhaustion.

“I don’t see how my decisions have been so much worse than those made by previous Popes,” she said reasonably.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” said Cardinal Gemme. “If you open the library, you’ll be inviting chaos. There are so many…difficulties. There are cases that, in the light of modern thought…well, some of them might be viewed as highly irregular.”

Pope An nodded. “I am familiar with some of those cases. I have been examining a few of them with the help of Willie Foot. I wish to inform you, Eminence, that the Church has little to be proud of. But we must acknowledge our mistakes before anyone will accept our intention to correct these errors. Do you understand this?”

His expression was set. “Your Holiness, you’re not going to convince anyone of your sincerity just because you release the details on the trial of Boniface VIII or any of the rest of it.”

Leo, Cardinal Pugno was almost out the door, but turned back. “There, Eminence, I think you may be wrong and Her Holiness correct.” He waited as the two gave him their attention. “As an attorney, not a Cardinal, I must tell you that often such a gesture as the one you are prepared to make, Holiness, serves to quiet the minds of those who have doubted the reasons for certain actions.”

“Thank you. As a Magistrate, I appreciate what you say,” said Pope An to Cardinal Pugno. “And I trust we shall be able to reach some understanding between us before all this is thrust upon the world.”

“Pugno, what’s come over you?” demanded Cardinal Gemme.

“I think I’ve begun to appreciate what we expect of our good Pope An, and that, in turn, has changed how I look at the world.” He looked from Pope An to Cardinal Gemme. “We have placed her at hazard for no reason than we have elected her to the place. She did not seek us, we sought her.”

Cardinal Mendosa had reached them, and paused to listen to what they were saying. “If you’re worried about the Pope, you’ve got very good reason to be. She’s sustained no less than four attempts on her life—that we can document—since she was elevated. I don’t know about you but I consider that excessive.”

“Very funny, Cardinal Mendosa,” said Cardinal Gemme. “You expect us to believe that there have been so many attempts and the Vatican Security forces have been unable to detect or identify such conspirators?” He did his best to jeer, but there was enough anxiety in his words that his attempt failed.

“Exactly what I do expect, Cardinal Gemme,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “And that’s what troubles me the most. We know that more than one group works against the Pope; of course, we’d be in a real pickle proving it, were there no evidence to suggest that this suspicion was well-founded. But we have photographs and reports that reveal deliberate intentions to assassinate the Pope, and that troubles me more than I can say.”

“So do you mean that there are those in the Vatican who support those who seek the end of the reign of Pope An I?” asked Cardinal Gemme.

“It scares the living shit out of me,” Cardinal Mendosa affirmed. “And you know that it is with good cause.” He looked directly at Cardinal Gemme. “Or do you disagree?”

“The Holy Spirit is responsible for her presence here,” said Cardinal Pugno, his thinning red hair combed straight back from his broad brow. “The least we can do is protect her. We all voted, and we know what we wrote. If you can’t accept that, then perhaps you ought to absent yourself from Rome for a while. Too many people here are aware of these plots, and might want to support them, if only in words. We can’t tolerate that.” He could not forget the disturbing meeting he and Dionigi Stelo had had with Dmitri Karodin. At the time it had seemed to him that the accusations of the head of the KGB were exaggerated and aimed at making the danger seem greater than it was. But subsequent investigations had shown that if anything Karodin had underestimated the danger. Now Cardinal Pugno was not willing to question what he was told.

“Surely there are groups who are dissatisfied. That’s what I’ve been trying to show for the last half hour.” Cardinal Gemme looked directly at the Pope. “I wish you would listen to what I’ve told you, Holiness. There are those who question everything you say. They can’t help it.”

“I understand that,” said Pope An serenely. “They are entitled to question me and every other member of the Church. And I respect their…worries. But in this instance I mean something more extreme than that,” she added over her shoulder to Cardinal Mendosa.

“What about trepidation? Or timorousness?” suggested Cardinal Mendosa as he looked at Cardinal Pugno. “I admit I never expected to find you in this camp,” he said.

“Isn’t there some American expression about politics making odd people to sleep with?” asked Cardinal Pugno.

“You mean that politics makes strange bedfellows?” asked Cardinal Mendosa. “You’re right about that.”

“Well, then, the exigencies of the current situation have shown that I must make common cause with you and the rest of the radicals if I want to see the Church survive the current upheavals being visited upon her,” said Cardinal Pugno. “I’m pragmatic enough to see that much. I don’t say this simply because I am a Cardinal searching to establish the strongest footing for my position in the future, but because I truly expect the Church to benefit from the reforms Pope An is bringing to it. And I do not want to see her killed.”

“Neither do I, Eminence,” said Cardinal Mendosa laconically.

“How very gracious,” said Pope An before she turned toward the dining room. “Cardinal Pugno, if you will sit at my left, and you, Cardinal Mendosa, at my right?” She glanced back toward Willie. “And you, my friend. You would do best to find a place beside your good friend Cardinal Mendosa.”

Willie Foot clapped his hand on Cardinal Mendosa’s shoulder, saying rather quietly, “Not that I wish to trade on your good-will, Cardinal, but I’ve been talking to a mutual friend of ours who seems to need our help.”

“And who would that be?” asked Cardinal Mendosa as he followed the Pope into the dining room.

“That would be Leonie Purcell,” said Willie Foot. “And please don’t remind me that you warned me. You did. I’m willing to admit that any time you ask. But the current situation.…”

“I understand her husband is in Rome,” said Cardinal Mendosa when Willie was thoroughly lost in the tangles of his thoughts.

“Yes. He’s in Rome.” Willie looked at the table, noticing that the grandeur of the napery and porcelain were less than this time last week. “I see that there have been some simplifications.”

“I hope,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he took his seat.

Chapter 24

“Now tell me, Mendosa,” said Zhuang as she faced her friend across her study. “How is it that there are such major discrepancies in what you refer to as Scripture? I have examined several versions of the same texts and I can see that no one is in total agreement about the material and its interpretation.”

“No dispute, Worthy Magistrate. You’re right,” said Mendosa in his best Chinese. “Scripture as we know it is a translation of a translation of a translation of a translation of a translation. Even the Gospel of Thomas has to be translated for most of us. But it’s the best we Catholics have to offer. The same is true for all Christians.”

“I’m not favorably impressed,” said Zhuang. “Why has care not been taken?”

“Oh, it has,” Mendosa assured her. “But times change, and so does language. What one language says easily, another says clumsily or not at all, and then the translator must choose which word is closest in meaning. Along with the trouble with translation, there’s the matter of language drift. Three hundred years ago, if you said spunk in English you meant semen. Now if you say it you mean good-spirited, adventurous, full of youthful vigor, and it’s often applied to girls.” He gave her a short, tight grin. “They don’t know what it used to mean.”

“And that happens with these writings, as well,” said Zhuang.

“Yes. Four hundred years ago, the meaning of the English word meek was one possessing humility and self-discipline, who puts the welfare of others before his own. By the middle of the last century, it meant someone who is self-effacing and unassertive. When you read the—”

“Who is blessed,” said Zhuang, taking his meaning. “A very different group of people is being blessed.”

“And there is good evidence that the English meek was a poor translation of a word that meant self-possessed and purposeful, or so some scholars think, though you’d probably get an argument on that one,” he told her. “Which is another group still. Meek isn’t the only disputed word in the Bible, Worthy Magistrate.”

“So I suppose,” said Zhuang. “I can see that understanding the meaning of what your Jesus taught will demand more of scholars than I thought it would.”

Mendosa chuckled. “It’s a good thing you opened the Vatican Library, Worthy Magistrate. You’ll have scholars enough to take on Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John all at the same time.”

“And Thomas,” she added. “I must review what is in the texts that were disallowed. I believe it would be prudent to include them in our studies, if I am to have an accurate picture of the teaching. I suppose I should expect some resistance to those texts?” She nodded and made a note to herself. “Did you meet with O’Higgins yet? He said he wanted to speak with you.”

“Jaime O’Higgins?” Mendosa asked, puzzled. “No, I haven’t heard from him. Do you know what it’s about?” What did the Cardinal from Mexico City want with him, he wondered. “I’ll send one of my staff around to his quarters. Whatever’s on his mind, we’ll compare notes before he leaves for home on Thursday. How’s that?”

“I think it ought to be sufficient.” Zhuang nodded as she continued to write notes. “Mendosa, you haven’t told me: now that I have been Pope for ten months, how do you view my work?”

“That’s not for me to say, Worthy Magistrate,” he answered her.

“Tell me anyway,” she said more firmly.

He framed his answer very carefully. “I thank God I have been permitted to see the Church in your hands, Worthy Magistrate. You restore my faith.”

* * *

As soon as the Eurocops had cleared away the worst of the bonfires and debris along the Via della Conciliazione, Dominique, Cardinal Hetre called Clancy McEllton and told him he would be waiting for him at the Piazza del Risorgimento in twenty minutes. “I doubt the police are blocking it, and Vatican Security doesn’t extend beyond the walls. No one will notice.”

“Is it important?” asked Clancy, not paying much attention.

“After what happened here yesterday and this morning, you can ask that? In less than a year, that perfidious woman has undermined the entire might of the Church, and you don’t see the importance of that?” His voice had risen, becoming almost a shriek. He put his free hand to his head, fighting nausea.

“But that’s nothing new,” said Clancy patiently. His apartment was on the Monte Esquilino, a few blocks from San Pietro in Vincoli. Over the door to his building the loop-branched tree of the Della Rovere family arms could still be seen. “Riots and upheaval and all the rest of it, it’s been daily fare for a year now.” He glanced quickly out the window toward the brassy sky. “It looks like there’s a thunderstorm coming.”

“And you can think of that only, when two hundred thousand people stormed the Vatican yesterday?” Cardinal Hetre demanded. In his mind he saw Clancy McEllton before him on his knees, his head bowed, his back bare for the flogging he so richly deserved. “I tell you, if you will not meet with me, you and your people will regret it.”

Clancy was used to hearing an underlying hysteria in Cardinal Hetre’s words, and ordinarily that would mean little to him. But there was a new note, and it roused his curiosity. “I’ll get the limo. That way I can concentrate.”

“I’ll expect you in twenty minutes,” said Cardinal Hetre emphatically.

“Make it half an hour, unless there’ll be a delay, in which case I’ll call you.” He said it without thinking, and took the brunt of his error.

“Are you mad? Has this disaster put you into such shock that you can’t see how dangerous it is? How can you call me here?” The urge to beat Clancy increased tenfold.

Clancy knew better than to rise to the bait. “I certainly have reason to call you to enquire after my Uncle Edward. Before he took that damned vow of silence, he spoke of you often, and if there were news, you would probably know it. Wouldn’t these riots trouble you, if you had an Uncle like mine?” He said it easily enough, and hoped that Cardinal Hetre did not hear how tense he had become.

“Yes,” said Cardinal Hetre, breathing quickly. “Yes, that would be reasonable. In times like these, I…forget how.…” His headache took the words away.

“I’ll do my best to be there in half an hour, Eminence,” said Clancy.

This time, Cardinal Hetre was cold as winter steel. “That’s been abolished. As of two days ago. Don’t you remember? No longer are we Eminences, merely Cardinals in all cases. Bishops are merely Bishops and Priests are only Priests. We can no longer say Father or Monseigneur or Holiness, either.”

“Very well, then, Cardinal,” said Clancy, trying to get off the phone. “I’ll call you if there is any delay. Otherwise we meet in half an hour at the Piazza del Risorgimento.” He hung up before Cardinal Hetre could discover another offence to complain of.

As he dialed International Vision, Ltd.’s Rome offices, he wondered briefly if he ought to call Rufus Greene in London. Best not, he decided, not until he knew what had Cardinal Hetre up in arms this time, other than the fact he could no longer correctly be addressed as Eminence. He took his light-weight raincape out of his closet before he set aside his leather file case. His call was relayed to the garage and he was informed that the limousine would be at his door in five minutes.

Cardinal Hetre was wearing his cassock when the limousine pulled around the Piazza del Risorgimento. He glared as he opened the door. “You’re five minutes late. Someone may notice this meeting.”

Clancy shrugged, as much for dealing with Cardinal Hetre as for the delay. “The Eurocops still have many of the streets blocked; any closer to Saint Peter’s and I’d be stopped and questioned. I didn’t think you’d like that. We had to go around by Ponte Margherita. Sorry.” He moved over on the plush seat. “Get in.”

“At once. And I pray there is no damage done,” he said as he slipped inside and pulled the door closed. He looked directly at Clancy. “How bad is the damage?”

“Not as bad as the last time. They kept the bonfires in the streets, so none of the buildings are in bad shape.” He tapped on the window and the driver moved off, going north to pick up the new Via Nerone link to the Via Cassia. “Someone got onto the Castel’ Sant’ Angelo and spray-painted part of the angel, but that’s minor. They’ll have it cleaned off by the end of the week, I’m sure.”

“It’s all because of her.” Cardinal Hetre loomed in his seat. “She brought this on the Church, and we lacked the courage to prevent it. But no more. She must be discredited and returned to her godless country before more chaos comes.”

“We’re agreed on most of that,” said Clancy, feeling his way. He knew that Cardinal Hetre was subject to sudden shifts in mood and he did not want to trigger another one if he could help it.

“It isn’t fitting that there should be men of the Church who aid in the death of…that woman,” said Cardinal Hetre, trying to find some sense of mercy within himself.

“Who else can approach her? Who else has the right to approach her?” asked Clancy carefully. “They’re going to start inspecting the bags and clothing of tourists entering the Vatican. How can anyone but a Cardinal get near enough to her? You may not like the necessity of such an act”—he had almost said such a sacrifice but stopped himself in time—“but surely the life of one woman, and a godless Chinese Communist at that, is nothing weighed against the good of the Church? You say that the College of Cardinals lacked courage before. Isn’t it time to discover it again?”

Cardinal Hetre made a gesture as if protecting himself from something pressing too near. “It is more than time,” he said. “And that is why I called you.” He ran his hands down the front of his cassock; it was a disturbing gesture, forbidding and sensual at once. “I…I was approached last night by four Cardinals who are as troubled as I am regarding the state of the Church and the potential for ruin they see ahead.”

“Go on,” said Clancy when Cardinal Hetre fell silent.

“I suppose I would not be betraying them if I told you their names. There may come a time when you will need to know them, for your purposes. If I cannot assist you, then.…” He looked away and stared out at the traffic.

So Hetre has a longing to be a martyr, thought Clancy McEllton with a sense of uneasy disgust. “Who are these men? I will not identify them unless it is unavoidable.”

Cardinal Hetre nodded, his eyes distantly. “Cardinal Ruhig of Köln was one.” He glanced at Clancy and saw the surprise, quickly masked. “He has been a supporter of the Chinese woman in the past, but with her ending of priestly celibacy and the abolishing of proper titles, he has realized how great the danger is, and he is with us. With him was Cardinal Belleau of France, who has remained neutral for a great while but now wishes to oppose the woman. One was Cardinal Dellegos of Croatia. The fourth was Cardinal Sinclair of Dublin.”

“Quite a line-up,” said Clancy, thinking now that he needed to know much more about any shifts in alliances within the College of Cardinals, for apparently there were many changes taking place there. He kept his voice level as he asked, “Why did they come to you?”

Thunder rumbled with Cardinal Hetre’s answer. “Because they knew I am a liberal who cannot support this Chinese woman. Most of those who claim to be liberals have all but embraced her, but I have not.”

And you’re not a liberal, either, thought Clancy. “I see. Did they have anything in mind other than commiseration?”

“Not specifically. But they are all agreed that something must be done if we are to preserve the Church from catastrophe. They fear for the welfare of their churches as well as for the Church herself.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I pray that more of my fellow-Princes of the Church will come to their senses and turn away from the terrible acts this woman has wished on the Church.” He folded his arms. “You don’t love the Church, McEllton, do you?”

“No, not especially,” said Clancy very carefully.

“No, that is obvious. But let me assure you that there are those who do, who love her beyond any love of family or country, because they know that through the loving arms of the Church they reach God and His Son.” He crossed himself. “If we were deprived of that link, of the protection of the Church, then we would be overwhelmed by despair and that in turn would destroy any hope we might have of salvation. We would lose the knowledge of sin. The ruin of the world is nothing compared to that loss.”

“If you say so,” Clancy murmured, mistrusting the fanatical shine in Cardinal Hetre’s eyes.

This time the silence between them drew out to nearly three minutes. Then Cardinal Hetre made an effort to relax. “It’s Cardinal Mendosa’s doing. He is the agent of the Antichrist. He is the one who forced us to receive this woman, the one who found her. He is the one who—” He broke off.

“One problem at time, Cardinal Hetre,” said Clancy.

“He’s been encouraging her excesses from the first. He and that rogue Cardinal Cadini. Between the two of them, there is nothing to save the devout from the sin of despair.” He slapped the seat with both hands. “They will have to fall, along with the Chinese woman. They will have to leave the Vatican. If it were left to me, they would be excommunicated and put in prison for the terrible fraud they have perpetrated on Catholics everywhere.” His face was very pale now, and he was breathing as if he might have asthma.

“Let’s deal with the Chinese woman first, Eminence,” said Clancy, using the title deliberately as the means to distract the French-Canadian Cardinal. “You said that Cardinals Ruhig, Belleau, Dellegos, and Sinclair are willing to oppose the Chinese woman. Two of them are attorneys, aren’t they?”

“Cardinal Ruhig and Cardinal Belleau, yes,” said Cardinal Hetre absently. “Cardinal Dellegos is a distinguished professor of Eastern European History, or used to be. Cardinal Sinclair began studies in physics and then turned to religion when he realized that science could not embrace the scope of the universe.”

“Any others?” asked Clancy, not wanting to be distracted by more credentials. “We know about Cardinal Jung and Cardinal Montebranco and Cardinal Walgren of Los Angeles.” The last had been an unexpected bonus, for Cardinal Walgren’s opposition to Pope An did much to undermine support in the United States that had begun to flock to Cardinal Mendosa.

“Oh, there are others. Joao, Cardinal Morreo of Goa is opposed to her; Karel, Cardinal Mlana of Prague is opposed to her; Etienne, Cardinal Semisse of Djakarta is opposed to her. All three of them have been very outspoken.” He straightened his spine.

Clancy regarded him with a degree of doubt. “Goa and Djakarta are very impoverished places. You’d think that the Cardinals there would welcome the reforms this woman has made.”

Cardinal Hetre laughed unpleasantly. “They, more than most, know how vulnerable the Church is, and they have seen it teetering for longer than those who live here in Rome and surround themselves with the glory of Saint Peter’s. They have seen for themselves how precarious our position is, and they have warned us many times that we stand in danger of losing everything.”

“I see,” said Clancy, recalling the reports of riots in Goa no more than a week ago. “All right.”

“And our numbers are growing. There are those who were willing to endorse the woman because of the voting. We elected her twice, and many thought that we had no choice but to bring her to Rome and obey her. But now they see that this was a deception.” He stared suddenly at Clancy. “I believe that we were manipulated. That we were made to write that woman’s name, that we were not inspired by the Holy Spirit, but by some other agency, and that we failed in our duty to the Church when we accepted the voting.”

“And do any of the Cardinals agree with you?” asked Clancy, hoping that Cardinal Hetre had not make a point of telling this to any of his high-ranking colleagues.

“A few,” said Cardinal Hetre, dismissing the question grandly. “It isn’t discreet to say such things where you can be overheard. I am convinced that there are several who would agree if only they dared to speak.” He flinched as lightening shivered across the clouds.

“Probably,” said Clancy, who was used to the continual clamoring in the sensationalistic tabloids that the election of Pope An had been brought about by the manipulations of the Chinese, the Russians, the Baptists, the Muslims, the aliens from outer space. That a few of the Cardinals might subscribe to such a theory was hardly surprising.

“We will find the truth of it. In time we will find the truth. God will show us the way.” He did something with his mouth that was supposed to be a smile.

“Any other of the Cardinals shifting to…our side?” Clancy asked. “What about Cardinal Tsukamara? Or Cardinal Lepescu?”

There was muted, distant thunder adding to the rumble of traffic on the Via Nerone.

Cardinal Hetre shook his head. “Cardinal Tsukamara refuses to comment, to any of us. He has had two private audiences with the Chinese woman, but aside from saying they were very interesting and had given him much to think about, he will not say where he stands. Cardinal Lepescu has been against her, but recently he has not been as determined. I am beginning to think that she has seduced him, in mind if not in fact.”

“Why would she do that?” asked Clancy, knowing he was likely to get an involved answer.

“She is the agent of the Antichrist, sent to weaken the Church so that her master may come without the stern opposition Christians require.” His voice was becoming sing-song, as if he had rehearsed this many times and it had become as much a ritual as his morning prayers. “She is capable of any sin, and she wishes to lead all the world into sin. It is her purpose to bring down the Church because the Church is a bulwark against the forces of the Antichrist. To do this she must erode all the virtue and sanctity of the Church.” He would have continued this recitation, for while he said these words his headache faded to nothing more than a niggle.

“Cardinal Hetre, it might be best if you don’t say that where too many people can hear you.” Clancy’s gentle advice cut into Cardinal Hetre’s peroration.

Again there was silence, and then Cardinal Hetre said, “There’s another Encyclical going out. This one lifts the ban on birth control and removes Church opposition to abortion in cases of rape, incest, and to preserve the life of the mother.” His hands locked together. “Not content with ravaging ritual and destroying the clergy, she is now attacking the Sacraments and condemning the unborn to Limbo.”

“Surely you suspected she might do something like this,” said Clancy, not entirely convinced by this outburst of indignation.

“Suspected, of course. There is no atrocity that woman would not commit. But to give priests the option of marrying and then removing the purpose of marriage—” His hands came apart only long enough for him to cross himself. “I have already announced to my Bishops and Priests that they are not to endorse this Encyclical. I have said it would require a Papal Bull at least to make such changes acceptable to faithful Catholics. And who among faithful Catholics could possibly believe such instruction would come from God? Or through such an organ as that Chinese woman?”

Clancy sensed it was prudent to say very little. “And the others?”

“The other Cardinals? A few are hailing her decision, and they are saying she has brought the Church into the twentieth century at last. One of them—Cardinal O’Higgins of Mexico City—has declared that these changes are the only hope for survival in the third world. He…he has ordered all his Priests to make birth control information available to every married couple. It is disgraceful.”

Little as Clancy wanted to admit it, he discovered he was coming to like Pope An. The more he learned of her, the more she seemed a sensible woman making rational decisions for an institution bound to the past. “It would be useful to bring the birthrate down in many poor countries,” he said with as much detachment as he could muster.

“If that is the will of God, then married couples will show proper control and not risk pregnancy when it is likely to occur.” He hated talking about such things; the thoughts were unclean, he knew that with all his soul. How could any man bear to contaminate his flesh with the body of a female? His headache was back full strength. “Think of the license this woman has encouraged. She has put aside the one thing that offered humanity the possibility of perfection. Nothing will stop the rutting now. Not even Priests are safe from the sins of the flesh. Nuns are permitted to say Mass, in the guise of Priests. Humility is scorned. Chastity has been made a laughing-stock. Don’t they see that without salvation, humanity is loathsome? No Catholic need save himself from the perils of desire for the glory of God. This Chinese woman has unleashed the animal in man and forgotten the angel.”

This time Clancy kept his mouth shut.

* * *

Although he looked tired from his long flight and his charcoal-gray business suit was rumpled, Cardinal Cadini favored Gunnar Hvolsvollur with his justly famous smile. “A pleasure to see you again, Mister Secretary-General,” he said as he took the Icelander’s extended hand. The five United Nations security guards remained at the door, their attention directed outward.

“And you, Cardinal Cadini,” said Hvolsvollur. The lounge they occupied overlooked the river. “I trust you had no trouble at the airport.”

“The advantage of being a diplomat,” said Cardinal Cadini, “is that I need have no fear of customs officials. My only concern was the traffic coming into New York, but that new freeway seems to have improved things.” He indicated the buffet tables at the far end of the lounge where a number of caterers were putting the last touches on the lavish spread. “How many are we to expect, and how soon?”

“Five hundred, more or less,” said Hvolsvollur. “There will be newsmedia as well, but they are not being permitted into the lounge, only into the studio.”

“Then you expect me to say a few words?” Cardinal Cadini ventured.

“Nothing more than the usual,” said Hvolsvollur. “They can learn the particulars after your speech tomorrow.” Behind his affability there was a trace of apprehension. “I don’t suppose it’s your intention to cause a riot?”

“I hope not. These days it’s not easy to predict what will cause a riot.” He smiled again. “Do you think they could spare me a cup of coffee?”

Hvolsvollur signaled for one of the caterers. “Please. Coffee for Cardinal Cadini,” he called out.

“With a little milk,” Cardinal Cadini added. “My physician is forever warning me about coffee, but at my age, I don’t suppose that coffee can do anything to me that age hasn’t done already.” He beamed at the Secretary-General of the United Nations. “While we have a moment, perhaps you will be willing to give me your candid opinion about our Pope An?”

Gunnar Hvolsvollur studied Cardinal Cadini for the better part of a minute. “Are you speaking in regard to religion or regard to politics?”

Cardinal Cadini laughed. “Dear me. I didn’t know I would have to choose between them.” He toddled over to the tremendous window and looked down at the water. “In this place, I suppose I must confine myself to politics, although how the two can be completely separated I don’t know.” He turned back to Hvolsvollur. “You aren’t a Catholic. Iceland, as I recall, is Lutheran. It would not be appropriate for us to become embroiled in religious debate, would it? Particularly here. Let us speak politically, then.”

With relief Hvolsvollur gestured his acceptance. “I believe that your Pope An, for all the difficulties her pronouncements have been causing, is doing a great deal of good in the world. Her positions on birth control and…family planning alone will make it possible for millions of couples throughout the world to conduct their marriages along more…more—”

“Reasonable lines?” suggested Cardinal Cadini impishly. “Yes, I agree with you. It is one area where the Church has been sadly lax for longer than I care to admit.” He turned once more as the caterer came back into the lounge with a tray holding a cup, a small pot of coffee and a little pitcher of milk.

“Where shall I put this?” he asked.

Gunnar Hvolsvollur indicated one of the occasional tables. “That will be satisfactory.”

Cardinal Cadini nodded his appreciation to the caterer. “Thank you for taking the time to do this. You’re very kind, young man.” He came to the occasional table and sighed with pleasure. “There is something very remarkable about the smell of coffee, don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” said Hvolsvollur. “My only disappointment is that it rarely tastes as good as it smells.”

As he poured out coffee, Cardinal Cadini agreed. “It’s lamentable. And it is true of so many things in life.”

“What a cynical remark,” said Hvolsvollur, startled to hear such sentiments from Cardinal Cadini.

“Oh, no, hardly that,” said Cardinal Cadini. “It is only that we humans have such a capacity for hope that often we permit ourselves to be blinded by it. You will notice,” he added as he stirred milk into the coffee, “that I intend to drink this, and enjoy it a great deal.”

Hvolsvollur chuckled because it was expected of him, then changed the subject. “I thought that perhaps you might tell me a little of what you intend to say when you address the General Assembly tomorrow.”

Cardinal Cadini took his first sip of coffee. “I doubt I’ll say anything to surprise you. But with all the unrest in the Church, it seems wise to remind the world that we are not seeking to harm anyone. We are trying to respond to the needs of these modern times.” He had another, longer sip, giving Secretary-General Hvolsvollur an opportunity to comment.

“We’ve already had many calls and letters protesting your appearance. Most of them are from various religious groups. I suppose you’re aware there will be pickets.” Hvolsvollur watched the caterers as he said this, as if they were potential pickets themselves.

“At this stage, I’d probably miss them if they didn’t come,” said Cardinal Cadini with unruffled good-will. “Demonstrations are…well, standard fare for Cardinals these days.” He poured more coffee and added a touch more milk. “I would prefer it if we did not have to be so guarded in what we do, but—” He finished his coffee in three long gulps.

* * *

“It has been a year and a day since the Roman Catholic Church surrendered to the powers of Satan!” announced Reverend Williamson to his television audience. He stood with his arms out, fists clenched, crucified on his own righteousness. “A year and a day, and the Church has been shaken to its foundations. All Christians must stand in terror at the sight, for it warns every one of us of the might of Satan in the world!”

His choir began to sing Amazing Grace, very softly.

“How often I have stood here, my friends, my Christian brothers and sisters, and warned that Satan would come to turn us from the True Path at the time of the Second Coming. I have been moved by the truth contained in Scripture, to show the gaping maw of Hell that waits for those who in these Last Days falter and seek the way of the world instead of the way of Grace. Be on guard, each and every one of you, for those with faith will be tested now as never before. Now I can point to the whorish Catholic Church, long since corrupted by power and greed and pride, destroyed from within by this woman charged by the Devil’s own to do the Devil’s work. I would ask each of you to find enough charity in your hearts to pray for Catholics all over the world who have been deceived by this woman, and turned from Christ to the service of Satan and his fallen angels.”

“Get a profile shot on him,” said his producer in the control booth. “And a little more light behind his head. We want him to glow for this part.”

“The Catholic Church is but the first to feel the crushing blows of Satan!” His hands came together in fervent prayer. “How much desolation and fury Satan will bring to the world through the Chinese woman who occupies the Throne of Saint Peter and makes mockery of all that is good in Christian worship. No one will be safe from the ravages visited upon the unrepentant. For the time of the Antichrist is at hand and the Devil seeks souls to devour! Sin is made to look as holy as virtue, and Christians are told that such things do not matter. This is the lie of godless governments, of psychiatrists, of scientists, of scoffers, of unbelievers who castigate those with faith in the name of rationality.”

“Let’s get a shot of the congregation,” said the producer, addressing the director who stood between cameras two and three. “There’s a pretty girl in the tenth row. Blonde. Big tits. She looks like she’s about to come.”

“Sounds good,” said the director, and alerted camera four.

“A family held together by love and the strength of the father is called flawed, dangerous, oppressive of women and children, harmful to the father for causing alienation. Children are encouraged to disregard the strictures and disciplines imposed by their fathers because it thwarts their creativity. Men are attacked because they are bold, are called emotional cripples because they harden themselves to hurt and trial. Women are told to disdain their role as peacemaker and housekeeper, to abandon their children and husbands for other ambitions that are laden with sin. And I am called an exploiter of those who believe in me because I accept money to allow me to continue and increase the work of this ministry!”

“I hope he isn’t planning to harp on that again,” whispered the producer to his assistant. “We’ll have the IRS down our necks again, sure as shit.”

“How are we to respond to this?” Reverend Williamson raked his eyes over his congregation as camera four closed in on the blonde girl in row ten. “How are we, as true Christians, to answer these accusations? We stand on Scripture for our authority, but the tools of the Antichrist mock Scripture and deny that the Word of God is present in these holy writings. We are told by experts that the Bible is in error. Only a month ago the Vatican Congress released a first report on early Christian writings, and shocked every right-thinking Christian in the world with the lies and profanities of what they claim to have discovered in the Vatican Library. How can we, as committed believers in Jesus Christ, stand idly by and see the teaching of Jesus emasculated by academic intellectuals bent on perverting the Scriptures?”

“Make sure we get a good look at the choir, too,” said the producer to the director.

On the floor the director nodded and muttered something into his headset.

“To complete this disgraceful travesty, Cardinal Cadini has told the United Nations that the Vatican is planning to release a portion of its financial reserves to a new fund the United Nations shall establish and administer for famine and epidemic relief around the world. The Cardinal said that the funds were given unconditionally so long as they were used for the stated purpose; no preference is to be shown on the basis of religion, race, sex, or political alliance. This blatant ploy to bring the United Nations under the control of the Catholic Church is so obvious that no one can mistake its meaning. Not the most naive schoolboy in the more remote regions of the world can misinterpret the thrust of this offer, or the intention of the Church to infiltrate the world through the United Nations. That body has long shown itself to be one with the forces of disbelief. The United Nations has too often been the tool of Godless nations throughout the world, and now that service is being sanctioned—taken over—by the Catholic Church.” Reverend Williamson regarded camera one in steady, condemning sorrow. “We do not wish to see the innocent of the world suffer. If we could alleviate the suffering of those in need, we would. But we are not prepared to assist the Antichrist in his conquest of souls, and we will turn away from any efforts to add to the might of Satan in the world.”

“Not bad, not bad,” whispered the producer.

“Do not be fooled, dear brothers and sisters. Do not let yourselves be taken in by the sweet promises of charity and succor. This is the worst sort of misrepresentation, for it holds out the promise of help, never revealing the damnation that awaits those who seize on its offer. The Church has been a harlot from the first, and now it is prostituting itself to the Chinese Communists. I say to you”—he pointed directly at the lens of camera two, now dollying toward him—“I say to every one of you, strike back. Show the world the true identity of this monster that seeks to bring every Christian soul to perdition before the Second Coming of Jesus Christ!”

The choir was now humming the Crusaders’ Hymn.

“It is for us, in these Last Days, to be the safe harbor for all Christian souls seeking protection from the forces of Satan. It is our special cross to bear—the rescue of all those lost in the toils of the Antichrist. Let each of you be a beacon, a steady hand held out against the raging sea. Let each of you be vigilant, and never cease to wait for those repentant souls who turn from the wiles of Satan to the glory of Jesus!”

“Make sure you get a shot of Lucy before we roll credits,” said the producer, indicating his eight-year-old daughter in the first row of the congregation. “I promised her she’d be on TV.”

* * *

Nine of the men in the room were in business suits; two were in cassocks. Pope An was wearing her usual dark silk jacket and trousers. Outside, the Roman sky was bronze with smog.

“I have asked you to join me this morning,” said Pope An, “in order to read to you a letter I have drafted.”

There was a distinct, soft moan of protest.

“It isn’t what you suppose,” she said, and waited until she had the attention of the Cardinals once more. “I want you to listen. This is a private letter, but one I think it would be best if you hear. That way there will be no misunderstanding of my purpose.”

“Might we know the reason for the letter?” asked Cardinal Pugno.

“Certainly,” said Pope An. She spread the two sheets on the table before her. “As you have heard, by rumor if no other way, I have received a number of letters from Zuo Nangkao, the Premier of the People’s Republic of China. I have never denied that these letters have been delivered to me. I have not discussed their contents because the letters were not official.”

“That doesn’t make it any better that you were getting them,” said Cardinal Durand of Baltimore.

“You may be right,” said Pope An, conceding nothing. “In the past I have not established my position in regard to the Premier, for I had not yet determined what it was. Now that I have seen the results of my decisions and I am aware of the scope of the task I have undertaken, I believe it is necessary for me to inform the Premier of my thoughts. And I believe it is necessary for you to know them, as well.” She stared at the pages once more. “I have arranged for this to be carried by hand to Premier Zuo through the courier provided by the United Nations.”

“The press are going to go crazy,” said Cardinal Llanos with a fatalistic nod. “It was bad enough giving them money, but if they include you in their services, what will the rest of the world think?”

“I’m not concerned about that,” said Pope An. “I have too many other issues demanding my attention to worry about the press.” She looked around the room, wanting to be sure none of the Cardinals had lost interest. “I address Premier Zuo as Worthy Premier, his proper title. I then say to him:

As one who has served the People’s Republic of China as a Magistrate, I am fulfilling my obligation to you as Premier to notify you of certain decisions I have made. You have done me the honor of providing me with suggestions and recommendations in regard to the post I now fill. I have read all these with care and respect. I am certain that everything you have written to me was the result of meticulous thought. I have accepted all in this spirit. In regard to your generous guidance and concern, I am aware that I am duty-bound to report to you my current assessment of what you have said.

My assessment is this: I am unable to act in accordance with your wishes because your wishes do not support the task imposed upon me by the Church. I must regretfully state that I require total autonomy if I am to perform the work which has been entrusted to me by the College of Cardinals. You were kind enough to release me from my position as Magistrate in order to undertake this work; I find that the occupation has imposed restrictions and conditions on me that will not allow me to endorse your proposals.

“How do we know this is accurate?” asked Cardinal Walgren.

“I can provide you with translations made by Willie Foot and by Father Zirhendakru,” said Pope An. “If that is not satisfactory, I will furnish you with a copy of the letter and you can commission your own translation.”

Cardinal Walgren glowered at her. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Then I’ll continue,” said Pope An.

I am grateful for all you have done for me, and I hold you in high personal esteem. You have guided the People’s Republic of China away from the risk of unintentional war and have made many impressive strides in bringing the Center of the World to its rightful preeminence among nations. You have faultlessly maintained the tenets of Communism and brought them into greater meaning for all Chinese people.

If I could continue to work on behalf of the People’s Republic of China and the Roman Catholic Church, I would do so. However, it has become impossible for me to accomplish this, and so I must place myself at the command of the task you yourself permitted me to accept. I am obliged to make my first duty to the Church and its people, which I fear will place me in opposition to your purposes. When this occurs, I ask that you recall how I came to be where I am, and not condemn me for practicing those principles that have made the People’s Republic of China the true center of Communism for the world.

“You aren’t going to say that in public!” burst out Cardinal Jung, who had been listening as if to the reading of his own death sentence.

“No,” said Pope An calmly. “I am saying it in a private letter and permitting you to know of it. If the public learns of it, it will not be my doing.” She let that pointed remark sink in, then leaned back in her chair. “My closing salutations are standard. I have signed it Zhuang Renxin, not Pope An.”

“Thank God for that,” said Cardinal Walgren.

Cardinal Gemme shook his head. “Pope, I don’t want to protest, but I feel I must point out that you could be accused of practicing Communism here. We’re all aware that you have been denounced for just that by many of your detractors.”

Her eyes brightened. “Yes, indeed,” she said. “I can understand why they might think so. But I wasn’t following the dictates of Marx or Lenin or Mao; I have been following the injunction Jesus made, to give the riches of the Church to the poor.” She folded the letter and slipped it into an oversized envelope. “Do any of the rest of you have questions in regard to my actions?”

Except for a kind of low growl from Cardinal Jung, the men gathered in her office were silent.

Chapter 25

For most of the night Cardinal Mendosa had been enveloped in glorious light. He had watched as Zhuang had lifted her arms to Heaven and become refulgent; he had been consumed with the joy of it, and the splendor. It had been vexing to awaken, to leave behind that glimpse of celestial bliss. He went about his first prayers with mechanical correctness, all the while longing to be once again surrounded by his vision.

Willie Foot found him at breakfast and drew up a second chair in order to join him. “I need your advice, Charles.”

“You look very serious,” said Mendosa as he pulled another pastry apart.

“I am.” He coughed, but not because it was raining in Rome. “I guess there’s no good way to say it, or to prepare you. It’s fresh from London, like the weather. I’m sorry.” His long face grew longer as he handed over the paper.

The headline took up a third of the page, creating shock from the size of the typeface alone: POPE LESBIAN!

Mendosa looked at it, his manner slightly bored; only the angry glint in his eyes showed the depth of his emotion. “I reckon we had to get something like this eventually,” he said evenly as he reached for the quince-and-ginger preserves. “It was that or that she’s really a transvestite he, but that’s a little far-fetched.”

“Doesn’t this bother you?” asked Willie warily, helping himself to the croissants. “It could compromise everything she’s doing, having people reading trash like this. It can’t be helping her.”

“No, it can’t,” said Mendosa. “And yes, it bothers me. But it was bound to happen. They were running out of other things to call her. Actually, I’m a little surprised it was so long in coming.” He poured himself more very strong Earl Grey tea. “Have some of this. It’s not a bad change from espresso.”

“Thanks,” said Willie, his face carefully schooled to reveal nothing. “You thought something like this was going to happen? Do I read you right?”

“You do,” said Mendosa. He stretched out his legs and brought one heel up to his knee. The shaft of his newest pair of cowboy boots had more decorative stitching, some in black like the leather, some in dark red for his rank. “I won’t say I was holding my breath, but I figured we’d see something like this before too long.”

“And you’re willing to let it go unchallenged?” said Willie.

“If I’ve got any smarts, I’ll let it go by.” He drank half his mug of tea. “And so will you.” This addition was spoken in the same easy drawl, but the sharpness in Mendosa’s manner caught Willie’s attention. “Keep in mind, just for a sec, the one woman who spends considerable time with the Pope who isn’t a nun.”

Willie paled. He stared at the rain-streaked window in order to mask his distress. “Leonie.”

“Precisely. And if you say anything to rouse public attention any more than that shit does, you can bet who the next target’ll be. You’re a journalist; you know how the game is played. You ridicule this—you have to. It’s the only defense we have.” He had the last of his tea and poured more. “Let them say whatever they want. Who’s going to believe them, if we keep our heads and laugh a lot?”

“How can you laugh?” demanded Willie with sudden heat.

Mendosa regarded him levelly. “I didn’t say it was easy, I said it was necessary. Two different things, Mister Foot.”

Willie spread butter on his croissant but did not eat it. “I have to call Leonie,” he said abruptly.

“I don’t think that’s real sensible,” Mendosa countered, his drawl stronger than ever. “It might be just what they’re watching for, someone making the association with Dame Leonie. So I think maybe you want to make sure she gets a note this afternoon, something in that crazy code of yours.” He looked down at the page. “I got a feel about this. It’s a British paper, and that bothers me.”

“Yellow journalism isn’t limited to the colonies, my dear Cardinal,” said Willie with exaggerated hauteur. “We take great pride in our rags.”

“And bully for you, as T. R. would say,” countered Mendosa, adding, when he noticed the blank look in Willie’s eyes. “Theodore Roosevelt. The one who also said ‘Speak softly and carry a big stick.’”

“Relative of Franklin’s, was he?” said Willie, grateful for the distraction. “We know about him in England. Lend/lease and World War II and all that.”

He shook his head. “This one was a naturalist and big game hunter. He established the National Parks. He and Franklin were related—cousins of some degree or other,” said Mendosa, bringing the conversation back to Leonie. “What about this husband of hers? He isn’t still in Rome, is he?”

Willie gave Mendosa a long, thoughtful stare. “Sir Arthur left last week. And well you know it.”

“Ah, yes; I recall you mentioned it,” said Mendosa, his urbanity almost as practiced as Willie’s. “Odd timing, I thought.”

“How do you mean?” Willie asked, sincerely curious.

Mendosa hitched his shoulders. “It’s the smell of the thing. Probably it’s because I’m Texan, where we’ve got a fine tradition of political scoundrels and con-men; we know the breed—admire it, sometimes. I can’t get it out of my head that Sir Arthur’s about to try to hornswoggle Dame Leonie.”

“Hornswoggle? Do people really say that?” Willie asked, though he expected no answer.

Mendosa continued without comment. “This article here, it looks like a setup to me, a way to short circuit anything you might want to say about him, now that it’s okay for Catholics to get a divorce. That’s what I mean about his leaving town; that was just a day after the latest…reform Pope An introduced.” He rubbed his hands together. “I predict that for all the howling and wailing we’re hearing now, we’re going to hear church bells for weddings this time next year, when the divorces are final.” He filled Willie’s mug. “It’s truly quite good,” he said in an apologetic tone.

“You’re not opposed to the change?” asked Willie.

“Hell, no,” said Mendosa. “In fact, I’m grateful, and I think most of the priests will be, too, in time. Asking a couple to go through that travesty of annulment—to say that the marriage never existed after two or five or fifteen years, that’s absurd. And think what it does to the people. It’s not reasonable to ask people already in pain to go through that humiliation. There’s no excuse for it, not in this day and age. Most of the opposition is medieval, supposing that wives and children are more property than people. Divorce does not undo the work of God, not to my way of thinking. It gives people a chance to fix things. I go along with Pope An. She’s right that to force people to remain in a bad match isn’t in the spirit of the teachings of Christ. And the others can’t find a real argument against that. You can tell because of their retreat into obfuscation. To say that the intentions of God were not clearly understood—as if any of us can truly understand the intentions of God—makes about as much sense as debating how many angels dance on the head of a pin, or whether the violin is a celestial or diabolical instrument.” He tapped the paper. “By saying that it is unnecessary and unwise and un-Catholic to remain in a marriage that is no longer viable, that could hit Sir Arthur where he lives.” He added, “Or one that never could be viable, no matter what the Church said.”

Willie thought his breakfast tasted like old paper. “But they’ve been living apart for years and years. It would only make fact something everyone already knows—they don’t live as husband and wife.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Mendosa said. “But he might not want the reason spread all over the headlines.”

“But how does this—”

“His…choice of company is all the more reason for him to implicate Leonie before she says something about him. If he accuses her, then anything she might use in response will just sound like childish one-upsmanship.” Mendosa stirred his tea as he went on. “If she asks for a divorce now, with all the publicity about the Pope, well, the newsmedia will feast on her innards and you’ll wear yourself to tatters trying to defend her. That is what you had in mind, isn’t it? coming to her rescue, making it real clear that you know she’s straight, and by damn! you’ll make horse-puckey flapjacks out of anyone who claims different.”

Willie was at once on guard. “I didn’t say that—”

Mendosa’s voice was very gentle, very Texas-southern. “Willie, chil’, you do a real good stiff upper lip; but you do a real good stiff something else, too, and it shows.” He waited while Willie recovered his composure a little. “This ain’t the time for heroics, old bean. Leave that to Worthy Magistrate Zhuang: she’s hero enough for a regiment.”

“But I have access to the press, and I’ve got a very good reputation,” protested Willie, his appetite gone.

“Then don’t wreck it by playing in the muck,” Mendosa advised him in a very even voice. “I’m counting on you, Willie. So’s the Pope. And so is Leonie.”

* * *

The four Eurocops faced the Interpol investigators across the conference room table. At the end of the table, the world-renowned pathologist shrugged in apology; his charcoal pin-stripe suit and regimental tie were perfect, his thinning grey hair combed back from his brow, his eyes moving inquisitively under bramble eyebrows. “That is about it, gentlemen,” he said.

“How are we going to deal with Vatican Security?” whispered Lieutenant Attersee.

“The poison came from Mindanao, probably through Cagayan de Oro or Butuan. There aren’t very many people who could carry it and go unchallenged,” said the pathologist, his strong Scots burr lending his statements a more gritty authority.

“We’ve been checking,” said the khaki-haired Inspector Odon Fleche. “Our reports aren’t very complete, but—”

The pathologist interrupted him with relentless purpose. “It’s not impossible to conjecture how it came to reach Rome. Someone carried it. It is for you to determine who, and why. An academic might be able to have such poison in his possession without questions being asked. It is possible, but I suspect bribes would be required, and someone would remember. Physicians could move such poisons with little comment, although there would be records of it. The police or military could move it or almost anything else without comment or any record of it. And, of course, any priest or nun could carry it. I recommend you start with the military and the religious.” He sat back, indicating he had nothing more to add.

“There’s an airport…where?” asked Sergeant Maetrich, who had been assigned to the case because he had spent four years as a Jesuit.

“The largest is Davao, but there are small airfields near Butuan and landing for seaplanes at Cagayan de Oro,” said Captain Christopher Hafen, Maetrich’s EECPA direct superior. “There are a number of harbors. If we’re looking for a ship we could have a long list to go through.”

Lieutenant Attersee made a harried swipe at a stack of printouts. “We have satellite records of large ships, and location sweeps on smaller ones. There are harbormaster records as well. We could work up a program for likelies—”

“And from every port of call, there could be other connections, overland or air or sea, and more connections beyond that,” said Interpol Inspector Cervi. “We’d better not get caught in that tangle. We’d never unscramble it.”

“Perhaps that it came from the Philippines is a message in itself,” speculated Captain Sigura. “We’ve haven’t examined that closely yet.”

“How bad has the rioting been in the Philippines?” asked Commander Bouleau. “This week, or in general?” countered Maetrich, not entirely in jest. “This week there were riots in Cebu and Tacloban. The one in Cebu was against the U.N. medical team treating the outbreak of Bubonic Plague. They say that the medicine is going to make them sterile. They blame the Pope for that.” He made a gesture of fatal acceptance. “They were going to die without that help. If the Church hadn’t given all that money—”

“Not the Church, the Pope,” corrected Lieutenant Attersee.

“They don’t know what to make of her,” said Captain Sigura.

“Who does?” Bouleau asked, not intending to be amusing.

Lieutenant Attersee dropped a file on the floor and knelt to retrieve its contents.

For a few seconds all the men were silent. Then Doctor Farquharson pursed his lips—his assistants could have told the policemen that this was a dangerous sign—and regarded the file folders spread across the table. “This is just a bit of speculation, but you’re welcome to it, no matter what it may be worth.”

“Go ahead,” said Commander Bouleau, unaware of what he might be getting into. “We need all the help we can find.”

“Well, it appears to me that it would be very easy to make this more complex a case than it is. From what I can tell, it is very clear-cut when you remove all the hue and cry around it. Not to say,” he added quickly, “that it isn’t complex. But I have always put my faith in Occam’s Razor. Therefore I would recommend that the Cardinal from Manila be considered first as the most possible associate of those who performed this act. And I would further suggest that the association of the Philippines and the people of India has not always been cordial. Never mind the common religion here, we’re discussing international politics. This may not be a case of misdirected homicide at all, but a specific murder of a specific target.” He folded his long, knobby fingers and rested his hands atop the report he had brought. “I do not say that there is no conspiracy. It is very likely that there is more than one, given the actions of this…this unlikely woman. But Cardinal Tayibha might not have died for her, but for himself.”

“Truly,” said Sergeant Maetrich. “We haven’t ruled that possibility out.”

Lieutenant Attersee, his fair skin brightly flushed, returned to his chair and said, “We’ve had reports from Manila and from India about the activities the Church has supported in both places, and the state of public support or distrust of the Church.”

“We’ve also been in constant consultation with Dionigi Stelo, the head of Vatican Security,” added Bouleau. “He’s been very helpful, but he’s in a very difficult position.”

“Most definitely,” interjected Captain Sigura. “To have to spy on those you protect, and defend the Church, all at the same time.”

“He’s been unable to discover any direct hostility between Cardinals Pingari and Tayibha. I know he has access to men and women who know more of the workings of the Vatican than any of us will ever be able to achieve. He also has his own position to protect, and in this case, it requires that he take no sides but with the truth. If he says that this was not a dispute between them, I believe him.” Bouleau slapped his thick palm on the table. “It would have been much easier if that had been the case.”

“So it appears it is the Pope who was the intended victim?” asked Farquharson. “You’re all convinced of that?”

“Yes,” said Inspector Cervi and Captain Hafen at the same time, and Lieutenant Attersee echoed them, half a second later.

“We’re proposing to slip Sergeant Maetrich into the Vatican as a Jesuit assistant. We have the co-operation of two Cardinals who are willing to give him bona fides.” Commander Bouleau looked distressed at the very idea. “We wouldn’t have done this, but we—” He made a gesture of resignation.

“It is the most pragmatic solution, so long as he is not discovered. If he is, it would be very embarrassing for many of us.” Captain Sigura looked at Doctor Farquharson. “You are expected to keep quiet about everything associated with this investigation, including our on-going procedures.”

“Naturally, naturally,” said Doctor Farquharson, sounding a trifle bored. “I have done this sort of thing before, you know.”

“But nothing quite so delicate, I’d wager,” said Lieutenant Attersee.

“I have never participated in an inquiry that was centered at the Vatican, if that is your meaning.” Doctor Farquharson gave the young Lieutenant a long, considered stare. “Nevertheless, I shall do my poor best to maintain discretion.”

Lieutenant Attersee went a darker shade of plum.

Sergeant Maetrich cleared his throat softly. “We are going to focus on the Pope during this investigation. We are certain that she is in danger, and from more than one source. If we do not solve the murder of Cardinal Tayibha to the satisfaction of the courts—”

“Wouldn’t any murderer have to be tried at the Vatican?” asked Farquharson. “The crime took place there, and it is a sovereign nation.”

Commander Bouleau sighed. “We’re trying to obtain a ruling on that. We have a petition in to Her Holiness, who—”

“The Pope,” corrected Inspector Cervi. “She abolished the other titles.”

“Yes. The Pope.” Commander Bouleau stared for a moment into the middle distance. “Yes. We’ve approached the Pope, who was a Magistrate in China. We’d like a decision on how we’re expected to proceed, since we are officially functioning in an advisory capacity only. We cannot arrest anyone, we can’t imprison him or them, and we cannot try him or them.” His frustration was digging deep lines bracketing his mouth.

“You’re not in an enviable position,” said Farquharson as if they were discussing finding a parking space.

“No. And it will be less enviable if we must—and it appears that it is likely we must—accuse a Cardinal of conspiring to murder the Pope.” Commander Bouleau rose from his chair.

“It has happened before,” Farquharson pointed out, once again bored.

Lieutenant Attersee had a coughing spasm.

“Somehow,” said Bouleau for all the team, “that doesn’t console me.”

* * *

“Your millennial fever has spread,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko to his newly arrived guest. “We haven’t had religious pilgrims in Russia for almost a century, and now look at that line!” He indicated the window; beyond in the slushy snow a long line of people bundled against the cold and carrying tall walking staves with crucifixes at the top waited patiently to enter the Cathedrals of the Dormition and the Annunciation. “There are more every day.”

“They number two thousand,” said Cardinal van Hooven as he pulled off his overcoat. He was wearing a black suit and dark tie; he bore three lapel pins.

“I must agree,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko softly. “How very awkward it has turned out to be. If the government were any more settled than it is, we’d probably have new regulations about religion, but as it is—”

Cardinal van Hooven laughed. “Pavel, my friend, haven’t you learned yet to recognize a blessing in disguise?”

“The disguise is excellent,” said Gosteshenko with asperity. “But I take your point, Piet.” He took Cardinal van Hooven’s overcoat along with his own to the small closet on the far side of his study. “I’ve made arrangements for us to be picked up in two hours, so we will be able to have a light meal before we must begin. We’re expected to arrive at the Congresshall promptly at eighteen hundred hours. There will be welcoming speeches, then Mass. You can rest here, or if you prefer, I will arrange for you to be taken to my apartment.”

“Here would be fine. I can suffer from jetlag anywhere, and I prefer to have your company,” said Cardinal van Hooven as he wandered over to the window and stared out at the lines of pilgrims. “How widespread is this movement? Do you have any notion?”

“According to our latest figures, there has been an increase of about twenty percent in the last two months. Before then, it was sporadic. But here it is, the end of February, a difficult time in Russia, but the pilgrims are on the road. All through the Christmas season their numbers increased here in Moscow. Now all the old shrines are being visited. There has also been a rise in the numbers seeking to enter monasteries. That is one thing the government has noticed, incidentally. There is distress in some quarters.” He moved behind his large desk and sank into his newly upholstered chair. “It has its benefits, of course. Church donations are up more than thirty percent.”

“Very interesting,” said Cardinal van Hooven, turning his back on the window. “But you don’t appear very pleased.”

“I’m not,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko bluntly. “I’m apprehensive and troubled. That’s one of the reasons I was grateful when you offered to attend our conference. We need to dispel some of the wilder rumors about your Chinese Pope. People here are drawn to her and fear her at the same time; she has been denounced for her elections, what she has done and what she hasn’t done. There is constant talk of the Antichrist, as in America. I am afraid that this is the beginning of religious mania, of the sort that broke out in Greece last month. Surely you read the reports. Three churches were destroyed on Christmas day before the rioters could be stopped, and all because of what that female Pope of yours has done.”

“Which of the…um, outrages do you mean? She has done so many things in the last several months. I suppose you’re referring to her giving half the treasury to the U.N. for famine and epidemic relief?” asked Cardinal van Hooven. “Or her ruling on earnings and tithing? I think she was being very reasonable, myself.”

“The former, not the latter. It was given extensive coverage in the newsmedia here. Now there are people who are demanding that all the churches follow that example, and return half their wealth to the people who are their flocks. More than a third of the agenda of the conference has to do with church property and charity.” He flung up his hands, looking directly at Cardinal van Hooven. His eyes grew sad. “The crowds in Greece expected to receive a portion of the churches they attacked. And I am aware it would not take much for those pilgrims to attempt the same thing.”

“You might be able to anticipate the problem, stop it before it starts, if it is going to start. I supposed that was one of the reasons for the conference. Your letter implied that the Orthodox Churches are interested in adapting some of Pope An’s reforms to your practices. Isn’t that the raison d’être?” He leaned back a little more in the chair; his back was aching from the long ride in a seat that was designed for someone taller and heavier than he.

“One of many. And I wouldn’t call it quite that. We are under great pressure, as you are yourselves. Religion has become a major factor in Russian politics in the last year. The people are worshipping again, but they are also no longer willing to accept the Orthodox Church as they used to. They see the changes in Catholicism and they seek changes here as well.”

“Not everyone approves of Pope An’s reforms, or of her; you said so yourself,” Cardinal van Hooven reminded his host.

“As we are all well-aware, thank you,” said Gosteshenko. “It serves only to make our position more difficult. We do not want to appear to be imitating you, of taking the word of a Chinese Communist over that of a true Christian. At the same time, there are many who applaud what she is doing and are urging us to accept women into the priesthood and to distribute our supposed wealth to the Orthodox faithful.”

“I don’t think that was entirely what Pope An had in mind when she presented so much money to the United Nations.” He stretched out his arms in front of him, testing his stiff, aged joints; he took a perverse pleasure in their snaps and ache.

“And no matter what the outcome, we are not in a position to do the same thing,” said Gosteshenko heavily.

“But is that necessary? Can’t you find a way to demonstrate good will? Is there a gesture you could make?” suggested Cardinal van Hooven. “Nothing on the scale of what Pope An has done, of course, but something that would show you are in sympathy?”

“We’re not rich. The Communist regime stripped us of most of our wealth, and what little is left is monitored and watched. With luck this conference will be able to alter that to some degree, so that we need not answer to fifty bureaucrats every time we seek to protect our worshippers.” He swung around in his chair and opened the cabinet behind him without getting up. “I have pepper vodka, or ordinary. Which would you prefer?”

“Pepper vodka, if you would,” said Cardinal van Hooven, his magnified eyes glinting with pleasure.

“Excellent.” He took a bottle from the cabinet, and two tall, thin glasses. As he put these on his desk, he went on. “Our people are growing restless. There have been requests. I am very much afraid that if they are not met, at least in part, then they will become demands. An entire congregation in Gorky have asked that the riches of their church be distributed to the faithful. How are we to do that, even if it were possible? Do they expect us to strip the gold leaf from the icons or take the chalices and censers and melt them down?”

“They may,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “That’s what they expected in Montevideo last week, and in Cape Town the week before; it was one of the few times both blacks and whites were in total agreement.” He smiled wistfully. “The Pope authorized payments to major charities in both cities, and issued a stern warning that destruction and disrespect were not the marks of good Catholics.”

“Is she changing her tune?” Metropolitan Gosteshenko stopped in the process of pouring their drinks.

“Not she,” said Cardinal van Hooven, amusement brightening his features. “She is being a good Confucianist-Communist, serving the people with humility, but expecting good conduct from them in return.”

“And that satisfies you?” Gosteshenko was surprised enough to remain still while he waited for an answer.

“Yes, it does. She has said that she regards the teachings of Jesus as the basis for Catholicism, in fact for all Christianity. She’s quite a literalist about that. Her decisions are made in accordance with what Jesus said and her understanding of them; the rest of the Testaments, for her, are nothing more than commentary. When you examine Scripture in that light, a little Confucius and Communism isn’t too incompatible.” He glanced toward the window, frowning at the lines of pilgrims under the lowering sky. “We’ve all gotten away from the things Jesus said.”

“When she selects her Scripture for what Jesus taught, does she include the Gospel of Thomas?” asked Gosteshenko, disapproval in the question.

Cardinal van Hooven considered his answer. “Yes, I think she must. And I’m not opposed to Thomas being restored, although some of my colleagues are vehemently against it.” He thought of the irate Cardinal Jung declaiming to the Curia, using bluster and decibels where logic failed him. “There are a few very worthwhile passages in Thomas. To have the Holy Spirit identified as specifically female is a breath of fresh air.” He half-closed his eyes, and after a moment, while Gosteshenko topped off their glasses, he said, “I am a light upon the way if you see me. I am a mirror to you if you understand me. I am a door to you who come to me. I am a road to you if you seek one.” That is a very fine addition to the rest. I’m not so pleased about the ruining of the female by making her male so that she can be saved, whatever that means. We’ve already had protests from our women studying for the priesthood. The text is currently in dispute. It might have something to do with the belief at the time that the souls of women were not as savable as the souls of men.”

“I suspect this is very difficult for you,” said Gosteshenko; his attention drifted toward the window. “We’ve had some requests to have the Apocrypha, particularly the Gnostic texts, made available for study. We’ll be discussing that at the conference, as well.”

Cardinal van Hooven nodded slowly. “I think we might be able to help you there: Pope An has already requested that a international tribunal of scholars be established to verify and translate all the New Testament material we have in the Vatican Library. She intends to have what she calls a more accurate Scripture for Catholics by next year.”

“Two thousand, again that year,” said Gosteshenko heavily. “Doesn’t this weigh on you, Piet?”

The Dutch Cardinal rose and came to take his glass. “I am very encouraged, if you wish to know the truth. In spite of everything, in spite of the rumors and the headlines and the dismay and the upheaval, I am very encouraged.” He lifted the tall, thin glass. “Let us drink to the triumph of faith, Pavel.”

Metropolitan Gosteshenko hesitated, then lifted his glass. “Why not.”

* * *

Rufus Greene watched the large-screen television, his face impassive. He had just called his associate at the European News Bureau and had been assured that Cardinal Gemme was in serious condition but expected to recover.

“Is there anything more I can get for you, sir?” the room-service waiter asked as he made a last check of the luncheon he had served for Mister Greene.

Greene remained enthralled by the riot filling the screen. “No,” he said absently. “The notes on the table are yours.”

The waiter grinned as he reached for the money; the tip was more than generous. “You’re very kind,” he said as he started for the door.

“I am expecting visitors later, conditions permitting”—he nodded toward the riot on the screen—“and the trouble controlled. I will want to serve them refreshments,” he said, his French stilted by its very correctness.

“It will be a pleasure, sir,” said the waiter, then caught a glimpse of the screen and added, “Be glad you aren’t caught in that, sir.”

“Oh, I am, I am,” said Mister Greene, smiling as he watched rocks smash through the windows of Saint Sulpice.

“At this hour,” the newsman was saying, “EECPA forces have cordoned off Notre Dame and Sacré Coeur, among other historic churches in the city. We have been asked to make general announcements. We request everyone in our audience living in the Paris area to listen carefully. All vehicles entering the city are subject to search. All items within the vehicle are subject to seizure. The Metro remains closed. We have been asked to repeat to everyone—please do not leave your homes. Stay indoors. If there is any sign of violence, notify the authorities at once. Anyone found on the street within two kilometers of Notre Dame will be subject to detainment and search.”

Rufus Greene beamed. It was even better than he had hoped, this terrible riot. All because that stupid Asian woman could not leave well enough alone. It was too easy, he thought. With all the plans he had made, anticipating difficulty, she had made it possible for him to proceed without a hitch. She was playing directly into his hands; there was almost no sport in the game now. It would not take much more to damage the Catholic Church beyond recovery. He chuckled as he got up from the sofa facing the television. He ambled over to the small dining table and sat down to a very satisfactory meal, all the while reviewing his latest plans. From time to time he looked up, watching as a mob of more than forty thousand people—according to the Eurocops—strove to dismantle Saint Sulpice.

He was sipping coffee and making a few notes on the pad at his elbow when the front desk rang his room. “There is a gentleman from Montreal to see you, sir,” the clerk informed him, clearly uncertain because he could offer no name.

“I am expecting a gentleman from Montreal,” said Greene calmly. “If this is a tall, lean gentleman in his late fifties, wearing a dark suit and tie, he is the man I am expecting. Please ask him to come up and clear him for security on this floor.”

“Of course, Mister Greene.” The desk clerk sniffed before hanging up.

Greene sat back and looked toward the window. If he squinted he could just make out the Palace at Versailles. This hotel, so very new, had been designed along splendid lines, with mirrors and grand chandeliers, as if to share the brilliance of Louis XIV’s remodeled hunting lodge. A single knock on the door claimed his attention. He went to admit his guest.

Dominique, Cardinal Hetre was pale, his eyes sunken. He offered Greene his hand listlessly, and made only the sketchiest of greetings. “It was a difficult trip. They took us off the train at Choisy-le-Roi.”

“It’s the riot,” said Greene, waving toward the television screen. “It’s calming down now.”

Cardinal Hetre took one quick glance at the screen, then turned away, his pale features more ashen than before. “May she sink to perdition,” he muttered, then cleared his throat. “Cardinal Gemme?”

“Still alive, if that’s what you were wondering. I talked to someone about him an hour ago, and there’s been no further announcements. He’s recovering in hospital. I don’t know his current condition. If you like, I’ll call again within the hour.” He regarded Cardinal Hetre once more. “Can I get anything for you? You don’t look well.”

“A headache,” Cardinal Hetre said, trying to dismiss it. He did not want Greene to think he was always suffering; it might shake his faith in him.

“Would you like to have a little cognac? Or an aspirin?” His expression was neutrally polite, but it infuriated Cardinal Hetre to have this response.

“Cognac,” the Cardinal snarled. He made a point of not looking at the television; his back was very straight as he selected the chair farthest from the screen. As he sat down, he added, “If you will tell me where the cognac is?”

“In a moment, Eminence,” said Greene as he opened the private bar. “I have Remy Martin or Hennessy. Which would you prefer?”

Cardinal Hetre sighed. “Either. Either will do.” He reached into his pocket and took out a vial of tablets and poured three into his palm.

Greene brought a snifter with a generous portion of Hennessy. “Here, Your Eminence.” He gave the snifter to Cardinal Hetre, then stepped back. “I’m a little surprised that you agreed to this meeting, Eminence.”

“I’ve come to realize.…” He paused, taking his tablets and washing them down with a first swig of cognac. “I’ve come to realize that you were right. It isn’t sufficient to remove her from the Papacy. While I cannot approve of killing her, I have reached a level of acceptance: her death is necessary. I find it abhorrent, but it is imperative. It is reprehensible, knowing this must happen. Yet it must.” His headache was no longer as severe as when he had got off the train.

Rufus Greene had the good sense to say nothing. He turned the sound down on the television and moved a chair closer to the Cardinal’s chair.

“I’ve prayed for guidance.” He drank more cognac, feeling it burn its way down his throat. “There is always a sacrifice demanded. It is God’s way, and as his servants, we must do as He demands. Unfortunately she must die.” His face darkened, and he set the snifter aside, almost empty.

“Such decisions are not easily made,” said Mister Greene, his manner soothing and remote. “There are compelling—”

“Reasons? This is a mystery, Mister Greene, not an equation. But you need not remind me of the precedents for this decision. I know them all; I do not have to recite them to you to demonstrate my dedication,” said Cardinal Hetre, and finished the cognac.

Again Greene waited, permitting Cardinal Hetre a little time to steady himself. Then he said, “I respect your privacy, Eminence.” He was inwardly amused that Cardinal Hetre did not protest the use of his banned title. “No doubt you have arrived at your decision after long and painful analysis.” He could see that he had chosen his words badly. “I wish I could express my admiration for your courage more succinctly.”

“I have said,” Cardinal Hetre reminded him with ungracious sharpness, “that my decision is not one from analysis but from faith. Faith is not subject to analysis, not as you mean the word. I have searched my soul.” He could not speak of the things that had roiled in his brain while he prayed for guidance, of the men he had seen, naked, flogged, bleeding, who lay prostrate before him, begging him to chastise them for failing to rid the Church of the vile presence of the Chinese woman; of the adulation and supplication they had offered him for his courage for doing what they could not do. How those men had possessed his dreams, his prayers. He passed his hand over his eyes. “God has led me, and, dutifully, I have followed Him.”

“Certainly,” said Greene. “I didn’t mean to imply anything else. But you see, for Protestants, our mandates are different. As you have sought for God’s guidance, so I and those I work for have tried to fathom God’s Will. That is the reason we approached you in the first place—we realized that our religion could not encompass the entirety of the problem.” He saw how Cardinal Hetre gloated at that, and decided to press on. “Without the advice and aid of someone in your position, we could not act. We are lost without you.”

This was all welcome to Cardinal Hetre, who nodded several times in grave acceptance of Greene’s flattery. “Those who are Protestants cannot understand, I fear, how much the Holy Spirit means to Catholics. To see It so profaned that an imposter, a usurper, is given the appearance of the authority of the Holy Spirit—” He could not go on.

Greene thought that Reverend Williamson could use that phrase—a usurper profaning the Holy Spirit—and made a note to tell him when they spoke that night. “We’re trying to remedy that, Eminence; and thanks to your efforts, we will,” he said mellifluously.

“I pray it is so,” said Cardinal Hetre without an iota of humility.

“So do we all,” said Greene, getting up from his chair. He was confident now that he could direct their discussion without having Cardinal Hetre turn skittish. “I’m expecting Clancy McEllton to join us, if you have no objections?”

“An able man, Mister McEllton,” said Cardinal Hetre ponderously. “He must realize how important our work is, to help so selflessly.”

Greene was tempted to tell Cardinal Hetre exactly how much Clancy McEllton had been paid for his work, and what he would be paid to finish, but he stopped himself in time: he knew Cardinal Hetre would despise anyone who undertook to assassinate the Pope for nothing more than money. Instead he murmured vague assent and went to ring Clancy’s room, to tell him they were ready for him at last.

Chapter 26

Houston was wan under weepy skies; the squall that had rolled through the Gulf of Mexico had blown itself out and now all that was left of it was rain and clouds like marble. Cardinal Mendosa watched as the limousine pulled away from the jet; he looked over at his companion. “I tell you, Willie, I’m beginning to feel like the specter at the feast. Or the fox at the hunt.”

Willie Foot did his best not to yawn. “Don’t worry about it, Charles. Most of the College of Cardinals feel the same way.”

“You mean with the press chasing all of us?” Cardinal Mendosa asked, not paying much attention; he was waiting anxiously.

“I mean the press wants to get the latest on Pope An, and what’s happening in the Church,” Willie explained with the appearance of patience.

“But I’m for her. I’m on her side. I love what she’s doing.” He waved suddenly, summoning a ten-year-old Bronco to approach. “You’ll like my brother-in-law. He’s not an idiot.”

“That’s a back-handed compliment if ever I heard one,” said Willie as the Bronco drew near. “What did he do to deserve it?”

“He had the good sense to marry my sister, for one,” said Mendosa with a true Texas smirk. “And he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

The Bronco pulled up beside them, windshield wipers flicking nervously. The passenger door opened, and from inside a friendly voice called out, “Chaz!”

“Hello there, Spook,” Mendosa answered as he ambled toward the Bronco, lugging his two suitcases, his garment bag over his shoulder. “Give me a hand with this shit, will you?”

“Okay,” came the answer, and the hazard lights went on before the driver’s door opened.

Whatever Willie Foot had been expecting, it was not a square-built six-foot-five Indian with dark red hair. He grabbed his bags and hurried after Mendosa.

As he caught up with them, the back of the Bronco was being opened for the luggage. “Sorry,” he said by way of introduction and apology.

Mendosa grinned. “Willie, this is my brother-in-law, Elihu Nimmo. Spook, this is Fitzwilliam Ellery Jocelin Foot.” He watched as Willie put down one of his bags to shake hands with Nimmo. “How’s the family?” he asked as Nimmo put the luggage into the Bronco.

“Eager to see you. And don’t worry,” he added before Mendosa could speak, “they know better than to blab that you’re visiting. After Saturday’s riot, we’ve had press all over the place, and news cameras on the front lawn. The kids know that they’re after you, and they won’t give you away.” He slammed the rear door and brushed off his hands. “Come on. Dinner’s waiting.”

“It’s what you British call country hours around here. We have dinner at mid-day, as if we expected to go back out and plow the south forty before supper,” said Mendosa to Willie as he went to fold down the passenger seat in order to climb into the back. “I know what this town looks like. You can ride shotgun.”

Willie held out his hand in protest, then said, “And if the newsmedia realize the limo’s a decoy, they won’t be looking in the backseat of a Bronco, will they?”

“Something like that,” said Mendosa. He took a deep breath. “What’s the place like?”

“You mean since the riot?” asked Nimmo bluntly. “Antsy. People are upset about what Cardinal Walgren’s been saying.”

“I’m upset by what Vince is saying,” Mendosa declared roundly. “And I’ll repeat that as often as I have to, to anyone who asks.”

“Cut it out, Chaz. I’m not arguing with you.” Nimmo was neither annoyed nor amused. “I think you might remember that a few of your Cardinals have gotten hurt over what your Pope is doing, that’s all.” He looked at Willie. “How’s that French fellow doing? The one who’s been in the hospital.”

“You mean Gemme?” asked Willie, startled to be included in the mild dispute. “Better, but he’s going to require more plastic surgery, and there isn’t much they can do about his voice. One of the rocks struck him in the neck—broke his jaw and cheekbone and damaged his larynx.”

Nimmo nodded and said to Mendosa. “See why we worry about you? You come out in support of Pope An, and that causes an uproar. Then, when everyone’s starting to get used to having her in office, Walgren gets a hair up his ass and rakes her over the coals and calls her the agent of the Antichrist. He’s had lots of coverage, because of Reverend Williamson and his ilk. Now both Williamson and Walgren are after you. You’ve been following all that, haven’t you? Sure you have, I know you.” He signaled the guard by the plane. “You’re going from the frying pan to the fire, if you want my opinion.”

“Not especially, but thanks,” said Mendosa, then added, “Trouble or not, it’s good to be home.”

Nimmo got into the driver’s seat and turned off the hazard lights. “I hope you think so this time tomorrow, when the news conference is over.” He checked behind him, his shoulders hunched. He made himself sit up. “Sorry,” he said to Willie, feeling self-conscious, “it’s habit.”

“Spook did some odd jobs for the CIA a decade or so ago,” said Mendosa to Willie. “That’s why we call him Spook.”

“Well, I like that better than Elihu,” said Nimmo with feeling. They had picked up speed and were almost in the shelter between two hangars with an open gate ahead of them. He reduced speed and checked the road beyond the fence, eyes narrowing with concentration. “Chaz, put your head down, just in case.”

“Smart,” said Mendosa, ducking his head as they headed out of the airport. “I hate having to do this. Sneaking back into my own Archdiocese like a criminal deprived of sanctuary. I don’t believe I’m in the wrong. I don’t believe the Pope is in the wrong. I don’t see why I have to be the one to be on guard. If you tell me it makes sense, Spook, I’ll strangle you.” He resisted the urge to peer out the window. “Any sign of watchers?” he asked as Nimmo paused at the gate and turned left.

“Not that I notice,” said Nimmo. “What about you, Foot?”

“Willie, for God’s sake,” he said. “No one, nothing I recognize…no. Wait. There’s a white van down the way a bit. It looks like—”

“Live at Five; you got it,” said Nimmo, glancing the way Willie was pointing. “They haven’t noticed us yet, but that doesn’t mean much.”

Mendosa hunched down further and turned his head away from the window. “The rain helps, doesn’t it.”

“It seems to,” said Nimmo carefully. “If they don’t know this truck, it gives us an edge. If they know the truck—” They headed north, picking up the freeway in less than a mile. “Unless they’ve got helicopters looking for you, we ought to be okay now, Chaz.”

“Helicopters,” said Mendosa, shaking his head. “What am I, an escaped convict? It’s bad enough to have to practice this deception. I hope things aren’t going to be worse yet. I don’t want to be chased all over south Texas by newspeople.” He hit the back of the seat with his fist, and then deliberately opened his hand. “Sorry. That was very bad form.”

“You’re entitled,” said Nimmo, settling into steady driving. Traffic was moderate and moving smoothly, which gave him the chance for light conversation. “Both girls are home, incidentally. Rick’s up in Fort Worth; he’ll be back in a week. He said to tell you he’s sorry he missed you. And John’s in San Diego on business. He’s supposed to be back tomorrow night.”

“San Diego’s near Walgren,” said Mendosa thoughtfully. “Good thing his name is Nimmo and not Mendosa out there.” He sat up straight and stretched out his legs. “Those seats in planes give me the bends.”

Nimmo chuckled obligingly. “I know the problem,” said Nimmo, who was a couple inches taller than Mendosa. “Serves you right. And it makes you grouchy.” He shifted over to the inside lane and picked up speed. “Taylor wanted to come with me, but I said no. Someone could have recognized her. She’s been on the news three times in the last two weeks.”

“A reasonable precaution,” said Willie. “She’s apt to be watched for. I’ve used the technique myself, staying away from recognizable friends.”

“Haven’t we all, one way and another?” said Nimmo, a brief look in his eyes that was colder than anything Willie would have thought possible. He turned the fan up higher so that the condensation forming on the windows would fade, saying to Mendosa as he did, “Brenda came especially to see you, since you’re becoming so famous.”

“How’s she doing at college?” asked Mendosa, pleased to have some subject other than the Pope and the riots to talk about.

“She’s doing pretty well—good grades and high enthusiasm—but she’s afraid that she’s starting to lose her faith. She told me that she can’t stop questioning everything. She wants to talk to you about that.” Nimmo noticed his radar detector brighten and reduced his speed a bit, moving one lane to the right. “This is not the time for a ticket.”

“Probably not,” said Mendosa, then returned to the subject of his niece. “How serious is this loss of faith? Is it the usual college thing, or something more? Did she say?”

“She’s worried. She doesn’t want to disappoint you.” Nimmo watched carefully as a police car shot by in the left-most lane.

“Disappoint me?” Mendosa echoed. “It doesn’t have anything to do with me. It’s between her and God. If she discovers that faith has no meaning for her, then she must follow her conscience. I can’t will someone to believe if it isn’t in them to do it. And I can accept that not everyone can believe, or perhaps ought to believe. Look at what Torquemada did in the name of faith—he would have done better to lose it early. So I’d rather she broke with the Church and followed her own way, if that’s what’s in her to do, than see her remain a Catholic and practice religion by rote. Catholics like that have been the bane of the Church for fifteen hundred years.”

“You look surprised,” Willie said, for he had been watching Nimmo while Mendosa was speaking.

“I shouldn’t be. I’ve known Chaz long enough that I ought to know by now that he isn’t a party-line man.” He signaled and moved over to the right again. “Exit after next. Better keep low once we leave the freeway. I’ll bet there’ll be newsmedia types staking out the neighborhood. They’d be all over the house if I hadn’t called the cops this morning. With you coming into town, they want to get to you any way they can.”

“It’s reprehensible that they try to reach me through you. Thank God that they don’t know I’m staying with you until day after tomorrow.” Mendosa made a gesture of resignation. “You’re probably right. Okay. I’ll get down.”

“I’m impressed at how well south Texas does flat,” said Willie when Nimmo slid the Bronco into the outer lane.

“Yeah, that’s one of its talents,” said Nimmo phlegmatically. “Nothing to stop the twisters when they come blasting through.” He swung off the freeway and pulled onto the interchange, signaling to take the overpass to the left. “You notice it out in the country like this. In the city, there’s so many big buildings that you forget it’s mostly flat. There are a few hills, but they aren’t much to speak of.”

“Spook raises Quarterhorses; he has sixty acres out here,” said Mendosa from the back seat where he had once again hunched down. “Maybe you better turn your face aside, too, Willie. You’re not an unknown any more.”

“True,” said Willie, raising his shoulder to block the side of his face. “Ought I to wear a moustache, or a wig?” He was only half-joking as he asked, and was answered more seriously than he had anticipated.

“It might not be a bad idea when we go into Houston tomorrow. We don’t want to attract attention.” Mendosa sighed. “Is Tom at home?”

“Sure is,” said Nimmo. “Now that he’s opened his practice, he’s with us regularly.” He sounded pleased and troubled at once. They were across the overpass and heading out along a wide, straight road where suburban faded into rural. “Another ten minutes and we’ll be there.”

“There’s two cars on the roadside back there,” said Mendosa, who was watching the road behind them over the back of the rear seat. “Pointed this way. One of them has a car-phone.”

“It might not mean anything,” said Willie.

“And it could be scouts for AP&T,” said Nimmo. “Keep an eye on them, just in case.”

The next two miles were uneventful, and Mendosa was starting to unwind. Nimmo’s shoulders began to relax and he drove more easily. The rain was starting to let up and the first promise of a clear evening made all three men less tense. The portals at the drive of the Nimmo ranch were just in sight when a large, white van came rushing up behind them, cutting in front of them and squealing to a halt, leaving black streaks on the roadway.

“What the bloody—” Willie said. “Lunatics!”

“I got a feeling our luck just ran out,” said Nimmo, his shoulders hard and high again. He had brought the Bronco to a near-stop, looking for the means to pass the white van and get into his driveway. His demeanor was very cool; to the casual observer he might appear bored, though Willie could sense the tension under his unperturbed air. “Chaz, would you mind curling up on the floor for a couple of minutes? This isn’t going to last long.”

Mendosa sighed. “Newsmedia. I suppose I must,” he said, and dropped down between the front and back seats, his long legs pulled up against his chest. In a muffled voice, he warned, “I don’t think I can keep this up too long.”

“Just shut up,” said Nimmo, watching as a man with a camera perched on his shoulder like a malign pet, strode up to the Bronco. Nimmo cracked the window and looked at the fellow. “What is it this time?” he asked without preamble or greeting.

“You have a passenger, Mister Nimmo,” said the man with the camera. Behind him a second man, black, handsome, dressed sleekly, was fussing with his well-styled hair.

“No kidding. I hadn’t noticed.” He addressed the interviewer instead of the cameraman. “DuBois, don’t you ever quit?”

Henry DuBois was more successful adjusting his smile than his hair; the wind continued to finger it, showing his bald spot more than he liked. “I have a job to do, Mister Nimmo. The people have a right to be informed.”

“About what?” said Nimmo, making his voice so flat that Willie applauded him mentally.

“About your brother-in-law—Cardinal Charles Mendosa,” said DuBois, making the very name an accusation. He came nearer, moving up beside the cameraman and looking Nimmo directly in the eye as he tried to peer up and over.

“That’s Charles, Cardinal Mendosa,” Nimmo corrected. “First name, then title and last name.”

This threw DuBois off his stride. “What?”

“Charles, Cardinal Mendosa. That’s the right form. If you’re going to talk about him, you ought to get it right. Okay. What about him?” Nimmo signaled Willie with the hand DuBois could not see, warning him to keep silent. “And you’re blocking the entrance to my home.”

“Your brother-in-law arrived at the airport this afternoon. No one has seen him since.” He stabbed a finger in Nimmo’s direction. “You were at the airport.”

“Yep,” said Nimmo, volunteering nothing.

“And you picked up someone at the airport.” The Bronco was a bit too high for DuBois to make his revelation forcefully enough, but he did his best. “You have the British journalist Fitzwilliam Foot with you. He arrived on the plane with Cardinal Mendosa.”

“And?” Nimmo asked unhelpfully. “You going to move your van, DuBois?”

“Where is Cardinal Mendosa?” demanded DuBois. Once he got going, he was very good at creating excitement. “What has become of the Cardinal?”

“You’ll have to ask him when he turns up,” said Nimmo. “He left in a limousine right after we said a couple words.”

“And you brought Mister Foot here with you.” The way he said it, the action was highly suspicious.

“That’s right.” He paused, then went on. “Not that I have any obligation to tell you this, but I want you out of my hair, and I want the rest of you vultures to leave me and my family alone. So get this: Mister Foot isn’t part of the Archdiocese, and so we’re hosting him while the Cardinal tends to business. Mister Foot is not available to the press, and is not at liberty to discuss anything the Cardinal is or is not doing while he’s here. Neither is anyone in my family. Pass that on to the rest of your pals, won’t you?” He revved the engine a bit. “You misquote me or turn this into a story and you’ll answer to Patterson Soames,” he added calmly; Patterson Soames was one of the two finest attorneys in the state of Texas and a force to reckon with. “Now, will you get your van out of my way? Or do I have to ram it?”

Willie glanced toward the portals, so inaccessibly near, and noticed that there were two young men on horseback waiting there, both in bright yellow slickers. He wanted to ask Nimmo about them, but realized that he was expected to remain silent. From years of pursuing stories, Willie knew that once a subject opened his mouth, he could be made to say more.

“No one has seen Cardinal Mendosa since he arrived,” said DuBois, trying to regain his momentum.

“You mean that no one has admitted to seeing him,” Nimmo replied. “You got two minutes to move that van of yours, and then I’m taking it off the road with my bumper. Got that? Mark and counting.” He looked at his watch.

“They’re saying there’ll be more riots,” DuBois declared, prodding for all he was worth.

“Pretty safe bet. Ninety-six seconds.” He revved his engine once more.

The cameraman intervened. “Hey, Henry, we better—”

DuBois looked nervously at his watch. “This isn’t over, Nimmo. We’ll find the Cardinal, and we’ll insist on answers.” The assertion was more for his audience than for Nimmo and both of them knew it.

As DuBois and his cameraman hurried back to the white van, Nimmo said softly, “Better stay right where you are, Chaz. I don’t think they’re going very far.”

“If I stay here much longer I won’t be able to move,” Mendosa said softly. “But your point’s taken, Spook.”

The van moved away with a lurch, and Nimmo’s Bronco picked up some speed. He nodded toward the horsemen. “Tom and his friend Cliff will escort us to the house.”

Willie looked at the horsemen, seeing the resemblance to his father in the nearer of the two. “Do we need an escort?”

“We might have,” said Nimmo, then explained. “They’re carrying shotguns, under the raingear. My orders, of course. If DuBois or any of the others try to come on this property, they’ll get peppered for it.” If he noticed how shocked Willie was, he made no response.

“You mean you’d expect them to shoot?” Willie asked. They were on the graveled drive now, the two horsemen following them a short distance back.

“You’re in Texas, Foot,” said Nimmo with half-concealed amusement. “Why else would they carry shotguns?”

Before Willie could think of anything to say, Mendosa spoke up from the back. “Do you mind if I try to get up now?”

Nimmo laughed outright. “Go ahead. Even if they’re using binoculars, they won’t be able to see you through the spare tire.” He indicated the first of the training grounds on the right. “We put in a small track since you were here last, Chaz. And two arenas, back of the old training rings—one of ‘em enclosed and covered, for bad weather.”

Mendosa had got back onto the seat and was brushing off his slacks. “And for awkward relatives?”

“If you want to ride, you go right ahead. Use the arena, or stay in the outer pastures, where they can’t see you.” The main house was very near and Nimmo slowed down. “You ride, Foot?”

“Not very well, and not Western, in any case.” It had been seven or eight years since he had last been on a horse.

“No trouble there. We got a dozen polo saddles. You can use one of ‘em.” This time he was aware of Willie’s surprise. “That’s our main market, other than cutting horses—polo ponies. We keep a couple strings of ‘em ourselves. My oldest daughter, Laurel, she played in college. Girls play polo in the U.S.” He braked the Bronco in front of an extensive garage. To the left the house, built more along Spanish than the usual ranch lines, was bright with new, white paint.

“They’re good horses,” said Mendosa. “And maybe I’ll spend some time on one.” He slapped at the dust on his sleeve. “What a homecoming.”

* * *

Cardinal Ruhig was the first to arrive, and he paced nervously while he waited for the others. Nine floors below him he watched the traffic snarl. It was difficult for him to concentrate, and that made him angry. He had to think clearly now. The others were expecting it of him; he owed them the keenness of thought that had made him a Cardinal in the first place. He wondered if he ought to have taken the man whose offices these were into his confidence; probably not. He knew better than to permit too many people to share this or any other secret. He fingered the lapel pins, finding them reassuring.

Andros, Cardinal Dellegos arrived a few minutes later. In his business suit he looked like a politician, one of the sleek, aggressive men who were always hovering in the background of major events. He, too, had his lapel pins in place. “I’ve found someone who is eager to join us. He’ll arrive in about half an hour.”

At that Cardinal Ruhig paled. “I don’t think that was a very wise idea,” he heard himself say, and admitted that he felt exposed. Four in a plan was chancy, but five put them all at hazard. “We must keep this to as few associates as possible. There is always a great risk, and it grows greater with every additional man.”

“You aren’t going to mind this,” said Cardinal Dellegos. “You’ll be glad to have him with us.” He looked around the stark, elegant office. “Who is your contact here in Modena?”

“Do you think it wise for me to tell you?” Cardinal Ruhig asked, beginning to pace. “You may want to have certain things left…to your imagination, in case we do not succeed.” The last was difficult to say, and he could not face Cardinal Dellegos. “We have to consider the ramifications of failure.”

“For ourselves or for the Church? In my opinion, the Church is far more at risk than anyone within it, but do the others agree?” Cardinal Dellegos asked. He was clearly out of patience with Cardinal Ruhig. “You’re conversant with the law. You know they can’t touch us, not while we’re at the Vatican. We’re not part of the Italian or European courts. If there were ever a place intended to protect conspirators, it’s the Vatican.”

“And that is about to end,” said Cardinal Ruhig. “You weren’t at the last meeting. It was very sobering. Because of the murder investigation, that Chinese woman has decided that Vatican Security has to become part of Interpol, and that Vatican Security must cooperate fully with the EECPA. In fact, she wants Eurocops stationed at the Vatican, in addition to Vatican Security. Dionigi Stelo is furious, outraged.”

“With good reason,” said Cardinal Dellegos, his olive skin darkening through the cheeks. “Is there anything we—” He broke off as the door to the outer office swung back. Cardinals Sinclair and Belleau came in; each had the look and bearing of a corporate leader. When the basic formalities had been observed, Cardinal Dellegos went on. “What can we do to lend weight to Stelo’s position? We must keep the secular police out of the Vatican, or.…” He had no words to describe the consequences he imagined.

“It’s Cardinal Tayibha,” said Cardinal Sinclair. “If he had not been poisoned and if the Vatican had not brought in assistance, Stelo’s arguments would be stronger. For ordinary security problems, and for the protection of the Pope and the College of Cardinals, the Swiss Guard and Vatican Security are expert. Sadly, however, the Chinese woman is right: they are not able to deal with this sort of criminal investigation. There isn’t much we can do to counter her primary goal, that of finding the murderer or murderers of Cardinal Tayibha. We do not have adequate forces or sufficiently experienced investigators to deal with problems like Cardinal Tayibha’s murder. If the murder is not investigated, or investigated only perfunctorily, it would look very bad.”

Cardinal Ruhig shook his head slowly. “It’s a persuasive notion, but how many murders do we have at the Vatican? Why should we align ourselves with crime laboratories and forensic investigators as a matter of course? Isn’t it possible to establish an occasional link, for those occasions when we need to avail ourselves of the files of Interpol or the laboratories of the Eurocops?”

“You don’t need to try to convince me,” said Cardinal Belleau, indignation making his jaw thrust forward belligerently. “I find the whole matter disgraceful. We are the Church, not another European agency. It isn’t fitting for us to seek to accommodate the political climate of Europe in exchange for better police facilities.”

“Fitting or not, it is something we must be prepared to do, or face the suspicions and accusations of the press all over the world.” Cardinal Sinclair had not bothered to cultivate his whimsical humor for these men. “We are being pilloried already—if we give any appearance whatsoever of concealing the nature of Cardinal Tayibha’s death, then we will lend credibility to the rumor that we have been conspiring to protect the murderer.” He went to the cabinet set between two tall bookcases. “I need a drink. I don’t know about the rest of you.” With that he pulled open the closed shelf and revealed an extensive array of bottles and glasses.

“If there’s port?” said Cardinal Dellegos. “I don’t mind saying that my nerves are stretched to the limit.” He went to the cluster of ultra-modern chairs and selected the one that looked to be least uncomfortable. “I’m not a young man any more. These events are very trying for me.”

“Port it is,” said Cardinal Sinclair, taking out a bottle. “Twenty years old. Not too shabby.” He poured a generous amount for the Croatian and then searched out the Irish whiskey for himself. “Anyone else while I’m here?”

There was a knock on the door and all four Cardinals turned toward it quickly, guiltily.

“That’s our newest ally,” said Cardinal Dellegos, doing his best to make it seem he was not disturbed by this interruption. “He knows to let himself in.”

The other three Cardinals stared at the door, waiting. Cardinal Ruhig coughed nervously and decided he would have a drop of port, too.

The side of his head was still bandaged; there were deep bruises under his eyes and his skin was the color and texture of parchment. Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme had lost more weight and all of his high gloss in the hospital. The bandages prohibited wearing a proper collar, so the top button of his shirt was unfastened and he had wrapped an ascot around his neck. His lapel pins were in place and his ring was on his hand. “Good afternoon,” he said in a voice that sounded like an ancient, scratchy record.

“Cardinal Gemme,” said Cardinal Ruhig, genuinely astonished. “I did not expect to see you.”

Cardinal Gemme met Cardinal Ruhig’s eyes at once. “You mean that you thought I continue to support the Chinese woman?” He could not nod so he rocked back on his heels instead. “Until the moment of death it is possible to repent.”

“Does that mean you now oppose her?” asked Cardinal Sinclair, his whiskey undrunk. “You have been one of her most constant and eloquent supporters.” He recovered himself enough to swallow his drink and pour another. “Was one riot all it needed to change your mind about her?”

“No. I don’t oppose her because I had the misfortune to be injured in a riot. That had been the fate of many Catholics. I have another reason. Because I want to see the Church continue to serve her people. Every year we lose Catholics to other sects, or to no religion at all, and in large part it is because the Church has failed to keep pace with the world.” He had to stop and draw breath, which effort left him with bright spots in his cheeks. “I thought that this woman was the key. She was not bound to the past. But see what chaos she has done. While I’ve been in the hospital, I have been thinking about the Church, and about this Magistrate Zhuang. I saw how I let myself believe she was the answer.” Again he broke off panting. “I have been made to pay for my error.”

“But to turn so far—” began Cardinal Ruhig.

“If there is gangrene, it must be cut out.” Cardinal Gemme found his way to the cluster of chairs. “She is gangrene on the hands of the Church. She purports to offer the promise of Christ to the world, and her very acts profane His work. Ignorant people praise what she does, and pay no heed to the damage she has inflicted on us.” His breath was ragged but he pressed on. “The hands, and their gifts, are contaminated. We must amputate them before more damage is done.” He touched the bandages on the side of his face as if to reassure himself there was still flesh beneath them. “So I am at your service, Eminences. And do not tell me I cannot address you as Eminences.”

“I would not dispute with you,” said Cardinal Dellegos. “It may be vanity, but I miss Eminence.” He rose and went for a bit more port. “I want to celebrate Cardinal Gemme becoming one of our company.”

“History may deride us,” said Cardinal Sinclair as he topped off Cardinal Dellegos’ port, “but our reasons are worthy.”

“History isn’t my concern,” declared Cardinal Belleau, watching Cardinal Gemme narrowly. “The opinion of the world is never our concern.”

“It doesn’t matter what history says about us,” announced Cardinal Ruhig, taking up Cardinal Belleau’s argument. “The Church is a spiritual institution. We are fallible enough to forget this, though we cannot avoid it for long. It is of the utmost importance that we seek to restore the Church to her rightful place in the world. Let history say whatever it likes, we will have done the tasks we have sworn to do.” He could not stop smiling now. It had been well over a year since he had been able to feel so completely satisfied in himself.

Cardinal Sinclair pursed his lips. “Well, do you know, I’d like to think that history will understand what we have to do, and will use us kindly, for the sake of the Church.” He strolled over to the large rosewood desk where the owner of the office usually sat. “And I want the Catholics throughout the world to understand, too. I want them to realize that we had to act.”

“Yes,” seconded Cardinal Belleau. “I don’t think that we will have accomplished as much as we hope to while there is continuing support for all the unconscionable acts that have been called reforms. In addressing the ills that are always besetting the world, in attempting to bring about their worldly resolution, the spiritual might of the Church has been compromised. That cannot be tolerated. Being rid of that Chinese woman is not sufficient. We must restore the Church to her station.”

“Yes. Otherwise we cannot undertake this…task.” Cardinal Sinclair looked over at Cardinal Gemme. “We must not do this for revenge.”

Cardinal Gemme swung around to stare at him. “Revenge?” He began to rise, then resumed his place. “You believe that I am throwing in my lot with yours for something so paltry as revenge? Jesus taught us to turn the other cheek.” He touched his bandages for emphasis. “I am a Christian, a Roman Catholic. I do not hold grudges and I forgive those who have done me ill. What I cannot forgive is the injury this Chinese woman had done to the honor of the Church and God.”

“You have been given much to bear,” said Cardinal Sinclair relentlessly. “If you wanted to match her injury for injury, it would not be unexpected. Jesus Christ taught us to forgive, but He has always forgiven us when we have not been able to have His mercy ourselves.” He downed his whiskey and poured another.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Cardinal Gemme, his ire making his voice more like static than before. “I have searched my soul. I know that my motives are not so despicable. I know I have been blinded.”

“Have you?” Cardinal Sinclair shrugged.

Cardinal Ruhig, who had watched this exchange with growing dismay, said to Cardinal Sinclair, “Why are you subjecting Cardinal Gemme to this examination? He is not a criminal on trial, to be made to answer the inquiries of a judge; he is a man who has come to us, to offer us his convictions and his support.” He looked at the other Cardinals. “Do the rest of you question him as Cardinal Sinclair does?”

“No, of course not,” said Cardinal Dellegos at once. “I have already asked him many, many questions. I am satisfied—”

“You had to be, or you wouldn’t have brought him,” said Cardinal Sinclair impatiently. “What about you?” he asked Cardinal Belleau. “Are you satisfied that Cardinal Gemme is not seeking vengeance for his injuries and public shame?”

“What shame?” Cardinal Gemme was more angry than before. “The shame was the riot, and the desecration of the great churches.”

“According to the newsmedia, you ran. They had taped it.” Cardinal Sinclair cocked his head to the side. “And boy-o, that isn’t a thing most men want the world to see.”

Cardinal Gemme glared at Cardinal Sinclair. “You know as well as I do that the news distorts things. The news wanted the world to see a Cardinal run, and so they created the opportunity. I didn’t run. My priests forced me to leave when the rioters started throwing rocks. They didn’t want me to be hurt. But as you see, they were a little too late.”

Cardinal Belleau scowled, and said to Cardinal Gemme, “It may be as you’ve said. We will never be certain, one way or the other. But you must understand why we are skeptical.” He turned. “I can understand why you have asked the questions you have,” he said to Cardinal Sinclair. “I wish Cardinal Fiorivi were with us, for his judgment is very sound. But he is not willing to take a stand, either for or against the Chinese woman. He says he is prepared to debate with any man, but anyone the Holy Spirit has endorsed twice cannot be disputed.” He swatted his hands together as if to rid them of dust. “I have reservations, Eminence,” he said directly to Cardinal Gemme. “It would not be true if I said otherwise. But I thank God that you have come to us, whatever your reasons, for you are known to be a martyr. That will give us legitimacy when the time comes to answer for our actions.”

“And just what are those actions?” asked Cardinal Sinclair. “It’s time we stopped dancing around it, Eminences. We have a dirty job to do, and we’d better get on with it.” He put his free hand deep into his jacket pocket, his expression alert and thoughtful “We’ve ruled out explosives, because of the Vatican itself: we could damage it beyond all repair. It would not be right to endanger the Vatican unless it was the only way we could see an end to this woman.” He paced down the room, stared out the side window, then paced back. “Thanks to Cardinal Tayibha’s death, Security is on the alert for poisons. And we have seen that poison does not always reach its mark. We must not make that mistake again.”

Cardinal Gemme shook his head. “There is more than one way to poison. If certain substances were introduced into her food, they might be found; but what of those poisons that can be spread on the skin, and vanish before the body is cold? They are not easily obtained, but men in our line of work”—his attempt at a smile was ghastly—“ought to know someone who could provide us with what we seek.”

“It is too dangerous,” said Cardinal Belleau. “Poison is not going to work. We must find another way.” He lowered his head. “I listen to myself and I cannot believe what I hear. That I should join those attempting to kill the Pope—”

“But she is not the Pope,” said Cardinal Dellegos with sudden passion. “She is an imposter, sent to throw the Church into disorder. We were duped by Satan to endorse her.” He put his hand to his face. “We are all honest men. We have made the Church our lives. We have sworn with the most sacred vows to serve her. And it was our piety that brought us to this catastrophe.” He spoke softly, as if his heart had broken.

“Still, we are planning to commit a murder,” said Cardinal Ruhig as bluntly as he could. “We had better get used to the notion, for it is the truth.” He placed the palms of his hands together, in tension, not in prayer. “From now until we are able to put an end to this terrible period, we cannot afford to deceive ourselves. We are plotting murder. When we have done it, a Chinese widow will be dead.”

“And the Church will be restored,” said Cardinal Gemme, his eyes glittering. “If one of us, or all of us, must answer to mundane authorities for what we do, what does it matter? I will not deny my actions, or my reason for them. If that means my death, then I will pray God to lift me up to His Right Hand, knowing that my heart killed for love, not for malice.”

“Very good. A pity that there are no cameras to record that for your court appearance,” said Cardinal Sinclair. “This is the reason I am not confident about you, Eminence,” he said directly to Cardinal Gemme. “I am worried that you will want the endless notoriety.”

“Notoriety is offensive to me,” said Cardinal Gemme, becoming insulted.

“Notoriety is very attractive, if it can be turned to personal advantage,” said Cardinal Sinclair. “We’ve all used the trick from time to time, haven’t we?” He looked at the others, then returned his attention to Cardinal Gemme. “You have been very visible. It isn’t easy to give that up.”

“I wish I knew why you have chosen to attack me this way, Eminence,” said Cardinal Gemme with sudden humility. “If you had wanted more exposure to the newsmedia, you might have told me. I would have done everything I could to bring you into greater prominence.”

“That’s the trouble!” said Cardinal Sinclair with heat. “You continue to equate what you do with public attention. We are not here for public attention. We do not seek it. If possible, we will avoid it. But the fact of the matter is that what we intend to do will draw attention to us. When that happens, we will not want one of us to turn the whole calamity into innuendo and…and performance.” He turned on his heel and walked back to the concealed bar. As he poured yet another whiskey, he added, “I pray God your purposes are as you say, Eminence. For we are placing our lives in your hands.”

Cardinal Gemme was about to defend himself when Cardinal Ruhig laid his hand on the Frenchman’s arm. “Not now.” Then he went to join Cardinal Sinclair. If this were a taste of what their meeting would be, he wanted more fortification than his nerves alone provided.

Chapter 27

By the time the reception was an hour old, Dame Leonie wished she had worn more comfortable shoes; her feet were so sore from walking on four-inch heels that about the only thing she could concentrate on was concealing the pain. Yet the shoes were part of the diplomatic uniform, she reminded herself as she tried to flex her toes.

“Delightful evening, Dame Leonie,” said the Ambassador from Sweden to Italy. “I can’t tell you how pleased we are that policy on these events has become more flexible at the Vatican.”

“I’ll inform the Pope,” said Dame Leonie, trying to calculate how much longer she would have to be on her feet.

The Ambassador’s wife smiled, her manner flawlessly gracious. “I think most of Europe…of the world, for that matter, is pleased at the changes Pope An has brought to the Church. One feels that Catholicism has accepted the responsibility for so many things that previously it ignored. The King’s speech on Friday applauded the Church for changing its position on divorce.”

Dame Leonie’s lavish apartment was crowded to the limit with most of the diplomatic and artistic lions of Europe. A small fortune in fresh flowers turned every room into a garden, and in the last glow of sunset, the open windows revealed Rome at its deceptive, glamorous best.

“He was very encouraging,” said Dame Leonie, who had not listened to what the King of Sweden had to say. She smiled, determined to stay on her feet. “If you will excuse me?”

The Swedish Ambassador bowed slightly. “I must say, Dame Leonie, that I did not expect the Church to endorse such sweeping reforms.”

Dame Leonie kept her smile in place. “You will agree that in the last decade, much of the world has endorsed sweeping reforms.” She thought she would fall over if she had to stand up much longer.

There was a gentle cough at her elbow and she looked over to see Vitale, Cardinal Cadini beaming at her. “I’ve brought you some of your own excellent champagne, Madame. Your staff have had their hands full with your guests, and I suspected had not yet got around to you. I hope you will share this with me?” He held up two glasses. In his impeccable dinner jacket he blended into the reception with practiced ease. “Perhaps you could spare me a moment?”

“Thank you,” said Dame Leonie, taking the glass and tasting the wine for the first time that evening.

Cardinal Cadini’s beneficent grin widened. “I’m not so young as some of you; would you indulge me?” He indicated a small cluster of chairs on the far side of the main room.

“Gladly,” she said with feeling.

“It seems to me,” said Cardinal Cadini, strolling along beside Dame Leonie, making his way through the crush with the ease of long experience, “that while Pope An is adjusting the world, she might do something about women’s shoes. As a Chinese woman, you’d think she’d have strong feelings on the subject. Foot binding, and the rest of it.”

“You’d think,” said Dame Leonie. She selected one of the wide, velvet-upholstered chairs and sank onto it. “Of course, now I shan’t want to get up.”

“Indulge yourself, Leonie; your evening is a triumph,” advised Cardinal Cadini as he sat down. He lifted his glass to her. “I must congratulate you on a masterful stroke.” The sound of other conversations was a constant roar, and their talk was carried on in heightened voices, as if they were walking beside the ocean and had to compete with the breakers.

She looked at him, doing her best to keep her expression unchanged, though she had almost choked on her champagne. “How do you mean, Cardinal?”

“Oh,” he said to her happily, “to have so…illustrious a company here, and only a week after the tabloids screamed scandal about your divorce—very deft, Madame.” He drank another sip of champagne in her honor. “You can’t imagine how much I admire this.”

“Thank you,” she said, and added, “I trust that not everyone is so acute as you are.”

“Some of them must agree with me. In such company, grand gestures carried off well are respected, aren’t they?” He finished the champagne and set the flute aside. “I understand the Pope is expected later this evening. The crowning achievement, if you’ll permit me to say so.”

“Thank you.” Dame Leonie set her champagne aside, unfinished. “It wasn’t intended as a diplomatic coup.”

“And is all the more successful for that. I needn’t say so, though. You’re skilled enough to know this.” He leaned back against the velvet cushions. “It is my besetting sin, this love of elegance and good things.” He sighed with pleasure.

“You share that sin—if it is a sin—with most of humankind,” said Dame Leonie, deciding that she would ask Luisa Fuomo to bring her a less dreadful pair of shoes. Not quite yet, she decided, but in an hour, after the Pope had arrived.

Cardinal Cadini interrupted her planning. “I don’t mean to pry, but what plans for protection have you made for Pope An?”

She turned, startled. “I made arrangements with Dionigi Stelo the day before yesterday. There are more than fifty security people here.” Her heart thudded once. “Is there something I should know?”

He shook his head once, his face changing. “I don’t know. I can’t rid myself of the notion that there is danger under our noses. It may be nothing but thirty years of Vatican maneuvering speaking, but I would recommend caution.” He signaled one of the sixty waiters for another two glasses of champagne. “I must be getting old, and jumping at shadows because my eyesight is failing.”

Dame Leonie shook her head. “If you’ll forgive me, Cardinal Cadini, your eyesight is keener than most, and well you know it.”

He shrugged. “My tall Texan friend is better than I am.”

“Your tall Texan friend is in Houston, and he is probably relying on your report for this evening,” said Dame Leonie with asperity. She took the second flute of champagne from the waiter but kept her attention on Cardinal Cadini.

“He will be gone for another six days. I admit that I would prefer he was here.” He accepted his second glass of champagne and once again offered a casual toast to Dame Leonie. “Let me tell you, you have my respect and admiration, Dame Leonie. And I hope you come through your divorce as unscathed as is possible.”

This time she allowed herself to respond more candidly. “I think that’s more in Sir Arthur’s hands than mine, don’t you?”

“Only to a point,” said Cardinal Cadini thoughtfully. “If you permit yourself to be dragged into his ploys and his schemes, you will not do well. He wants to cause damage and you do not. You’re wise to keep well out of it.”

“I have very capable attorneys,” said Dame Leonie, glancing around once to be certain that no one was listening.

Cardinal Cadini caught this motion and knew its meaning. “Don’t worry. Most of them are more interested in finding out the latest gossip—your divorce is old news for them.” He shoved himself to his feet. “And I fear I ought to do my part. Thank you again for having me at this…celebration?”

“That’s as good a word as any,” said Dame Leonie cautiously.

“It is an excellent word,” Cardinal Cadini declared, very pleased with himself. “And I see that my old friend Professor Bell is here. I ought to have a word or two with him.” He started away from the three settees. “Incidentally,” he said, turning back, “you will want to speak with Sergios, Cardinal Phinees. Another masterful stroke, I must say, inviting him. Everyone wants to meet the new Cardinal.”

“Pope An requested it,” said Dame Leonie.

“Of course she did. He is her first Cardinal,” said Cardinal Cadini. “Only thirty-six, and from Cyprus. I am impressed.” He winked at her, then ambled away into the crowd.

Dame Leonie watched him, her eyes distant. How many of the others here, she asked herself, were aware of the many currents flowing through this gathering? And how many of those currents did she recognize? Mightn’t there be some she knew nothing of? What if the Eurocops had not anticipated danger? It was reassuring to have Axel Maetrich, wearing a Roman collar, coordinating half the security staff, but what if their precautions were not sufficient? The notion disturbed her, and she took a little more champagne. In another moment she would have to get back onto her aching feet and continue to circulate through her guests.

“I’ve missed you.” Willie Foot leaned over the back of the settee and took her free hand, lifting it quickly to his lips, turning it rapidly so that he could kiss her palm instead of the knuckles.

She turned, startled and pleased at once. “Willie.”

He looked down at her, his eyes alive with his passion for her. “If you tell me this isn’t wise—”

“No one is paying any attention,” she said, paying little attention to the rest herself.

“Even if they are, you’re going to be a free woman soon. What you and I do won’t matter then. Will it?” He wore his dinner jacket with the slouchy ease of long habit. “How much longer, do you think?”

“My attorneys haven’t advised me yet,” she said softly. “As soon as Arthur agrees to a settlement, I’ll—”

“Do you think he will agree?” Willie cut in, frowning.

“Yes. After everything he’s said in the press, he can’t refuse. He’s labeled me with every despicable name he can think of. He can’t remain married to me after this. If he won’t settle, he’ll compromise himself too badly.” Recklessly she finished her champagne.

Willie’s eyes narrowed. “I could flay him for what he’s said.”

“That would make things better, wouldn’t it?” Her sarcasm was lightened by her hand coming to rest on his. Her eyes pleaded with him, mixing anxiety and trust. “We have to be patient a while longer.”

“And what then?” he asked, leaning a little closer to her. His voice was so low that she had to concentrate to hear it. “Will you live with me? Will you marry me, finally? I don’t want any more of this backstairs nonsense. I don’t want to have to be discreet. I want to lie beside you every night. I want to wake up with you. I want to be able to touch you without damaging your reputation. I don’t want to have to sneak about and lie any longer.”

She made a small gesture to silence him though she wanted him to say more. “I…I can’t now. I want everything you want, but not here.” She forced herself to break away from him, to get back on her sore feet. She smoothed her long dress and adjusted her smile.

“We’ll talk later,” Willie promised her, and obligingly moved on to the world-famous director who had just finished a tremendous film about the Knights Templar.

Dame Leonie glanced swiftly at her watch: Pope An would arrive in twenty minutes. It was time to alert Axel Maetrich so that he could position his staff. She was grateful that Pope An had been willing to augment Vatican Security with Eurocops, for a gathering like this one was more than Stelo’s people were used to handling. She had almost reached Maetrich, standing with one of the catering staff and an angular, anonymous gentleman with restless eyes, when she felt a hand on her arm.

“Dame Leonie,” said Dmitri Karodin, giving her a slight bow. “Quite a splendid gathering.”

She stared at the head of the KGB, recognizing him at once and trying to think of something to say beyond an automatic, “Thank you.” All her experience gave her the necessary small-talk. “I had no idea you were in Rome.”

“I am here with colleagues,” he said smoothly, paying no attention to her shock. “A whim, this visit, nothing more.” His clear, penetrating gaze rested on her face, then flicked away. “How could I stay away? The opportunity to meet a woman I very much admire.” He brought his eyes back to her face and smiled at her. “Pope An.”

“You admire her?” Dame Leonie was having difficulty following him.

“Oh, profoundly. She is unique, and not for the reasons everyone cites. How many humane reformers have there been in the past? Usually we have had to settle for one—humane or reformer, but not both in the same person. Those who were humane were usually corruptible and those who were reformers were also intolerant zealots. Not much of a choice between them. But this woman—at least so far—has been both. How remarkable. I consider myself privileged to be able—” He stopped abruptly as Cardinal Gemme came up to Dame Leonie.

Cardinal Gemme paid no attention to Karodin; he planted himself in front of his hostess. “I must talk with you. It is urgent. I regret the interruption.” This last afterthought was nothing more than a formality.

Dame Leonie nodded, looking at Karodin, a faint line between her brows. “Perhaps—” she began, not wanting to offend him. She tried to block out the pain of her feet; she would have to change shoes.

Karodin gave an equivocal smile, his eyes on hers, then moved away without a word.

“I have to speak with Pope An as soon as she arrives,” said Cardinal Gemme without apology. “She is in danger, and I can identify the danger.”

“Oh?” Dame Leonie knew better than to reveal the sudden apprehension that seized her.

“You doubt me?” Cardinal Gemme demanded.

“I don’t know how to answer that, Cardinal,” she said at her most reasonable. “Don’t you think it would be better to tell this to Dionigi Stelo or one of the Eurocops?”

“No!” This outburst attracted stares, and he forced his voice lower. He had come to hate being stared at; stares reminded him of how ruined his face was. “I have to speak to the Pope. Only to her. As soon as she arrives. You must arrange it. I won’t be responsible for what happens if you fail me.”

“Cardinal Gemme,” Dame Leonie warned, “you don’t—”

“There is danger, I tell you. I must warn her. It is up to you to do this for me.” He started to say something more, then changed his mind. “You see to it, Madame. I am depending on you. I won’t answer for what happens if you don’t.” He took a step back and trod on the shawl of the Polish Ambassador’s wife. He said a brusque word to her, then addressed Dame Leonie once more. “When Pope An arrives, you make sure I may speak with her at once.” With that he moved away into the crowd.

As Dame Leonie stared after him in consternation, a soft voice spoke at her elbow. “I think you ought to know: he is carrying explosives.”

She spun around and found Dmitri Karodin beside her once again. “What?”

“Under his jacket. It is the very latest plastic, about the size of a small book. The fuse is two-phase, and he knows how to use it.” There was amusement in his eyes now, and a trace of sympathy. “I have one or two assistants with me. They discovered the Cardinal’s little surprise shortly after he arrived.” He studied the back of his hand. “I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to speak to your security people.”

“No,” she agreed distantly, too astonished to say anything else.

He still did not meet her eyes with his. “It is unfortunate. Cardinal Gemme. More than his body was damaged in that riot. He is not the man he was.”

Dame Leonie gave a quick look into the crowd but could not spot Cardinal Gemme. “No, he’s not,” she said quietly.

Finally he stared at her once more. “It would be a shame if he had to suffer any more embarrassment.”

“Yes,” she repeated. “I’ll…speak to—”

He cut her off “Someone appropriate, I’m sure.” Once again he faded into the throng of guests.

A moment later Dame Leonie pulled Axel Maetrich aside. “I fear.…” This suddenly felt very difficult. How could she accuse Cardinal Gemme of carrying explosives? She began again. “I have reason to believe that…one of my guests is…possibly—” She stopped. What if Karodin was lying? What if his intention was to divert attention from a real threat by this accusation?

“What is it?” Maetrich asked, sensing her distress.

“Do you have some way to check for weapons or…or explosives?” she asked, astonished at her own bluntness.

“Yes,” said Maetrich cautiously.

“How…how discreet is the check?” Her heart was beating faster and more urgently. She was frightened. Her feet were forgotten.

“We have equipment in the kitchen.” They had gone over everything the caterers had brought, and those waiters who were not part of the security staff had been screened thoroughly with their equipment. He looked toward the kitchen door. “If there is someone, or…?”

“If you can do this without drawing attention to what you’re doing, have one of your men check Cardinal Gemme.” She spoke very quickly, breathlessly. Now that she had given the order, she was appalled. How could she consider such a possibility? But how could she not consider it?

“Cardinal Gemme?” Maetrich repeated. “Are you certain?”

“No, I’m not,” she replied. “That is why your man must be as circumspect as possible. If the…information I have is in error.…” She glanced nervously at her watch. “It must be done quickly.”

“Before the Pope arrives?” said Maetrich, not expecting an answer.

“Yes,” said Dame Leonie. “Without fuss.”

“We’ll attend to it,” said Maetrich, and went off purposefully toward the kitchen.

Dame Leonie stood alone for the better part of a minute, the noise and bustle of her party lost on her. She could only think what could happen if it turned out that Dmitri Karodin was right. Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme carrying explosives at a party! It was ludicrous. Unless it was true. Her hand went to her throat. How could she warn Pope An? To reach the Pope’s personal Swiss Guard, she would have to use the telephone or the radios, and either could be overheard. If news leaked out that there had been direct and personal danger for Pope An.…

“What’s the matter, Leonie?” Willie Foot asked her as he came to her side. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“A goose must have walked over my grave,” she said with a shaky laugh.

“Something’s wrong,” Willie said in a manner that allowed no argument. “What is it?”

She shook her head, not trusting herself to accept his support. “I can’t.” She took a step away from him. “Not now.”

There was more concern in his demeanor. “What is it?” he insisted. “Leonie!”

Her eyes widened and she made a gesture to bar him from her. “Please, Willie. I’ll tell you later.”

Now he was seriously worried. “My God, what’s happened?” As she started away from him, he went after her.

“Nothing,” she said hastily. “Not yet.”

He could not accept that. He pursued her, determined to find out what had distressed her. “Leonie.”

“No.” She read hurt in his eyes and relented. “As soon as it’s taken care of, I’ll tell you all about it.” Then she broke away from him and started toward the kitchen door, wanting to reach Maetrich before his men went to work.

Three waiters emerged from the kitchen, two of them pushing a cart laden with chafing dishes and a bain de Marie. They moved in a swift but erratic course through the gathering, bound for the far side of the main room, to where a small bar was set up. One of the waiters held a bouquet of serving utensils, and the one at the front of the cart kept motioning people aside.

A few of the guests flocked after the cart, but most only moved out of the way and continued their conversations; the waiters reached their destination and two of them began to set up for serving. The third waiter headed back toward the kitchen, pausing only to say a few words to another member of the serving staff before vanishing into the rear of the crowd.

Watching this exchange, Dame Leonie felt a cold fist close in her viscera. Both the third waiter and the man to whom he had spoken were part of the security staff. Without intention she moved toward Axel Maetrich for the confirmation she sensed was waiting, only to be blocked by the ponderous bulk of Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung, resplendent in his satin cassock.

“I want to offer you my felicitations,” said Cardinal Jung. “You have contrived a most attractive diversion.”

This double-edged compliment caught her attention. “Why, how kind of you, Cardinal,” she said, responding with sincerity to equal his own.

“I confess—we’re still permitted to confess, aren’t we?—that I was amazed that you had the gall to offer such an entertainment when your disgrace has been flaunted through the world news services, but I see now that you have succeeded in a very clever ploy. Who will speak ill of you when you have done so much to smooth the way of the Chinese woman?” He folded his arms as if daring her to spar with him.

Under other circumstances Dame Leonie might have been tempted to take up the challenge, but now she paid no heed. “If you are not enjoying yourself, Cardinal Jung, pray do not feel compelled to stay.”

He had been prepared for any number of reactions, but not her cool response. His color heightened. “Dame Leonie—”

She stepped aside. “Please excuse me, Cardinal. There is a matter that requires my immediate attention.”

Axel Maetrich had seen her approach, and now drew her aside. He lowered his head and his voice. “He is carrying explosives.”

Although this was what Dame Leonie expected, hearing the words spoken was more than she could endure. She took two quick, sharp breaths before she was able to speak calmly. “Find a way to remove him. Before Pope An arrives.”

“That might be difficult,” Maetrich said quietly, with a swift, significant look around the crowd.

Dame Leonie followed his glance. “You mean that the guests could be in danger.” She had not permitted herself to consider this until now. “But surely he wouldn’t do—”

“We don’t know what he’ll do,” said Maetrich steadily. “No one does.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Dame Leonie. “All right; what do you recommend?”

“I’d recommend removing the Cardinal as quietly and quickly as possible,” said Maetrich, his features set uncompromisingly. “I don’t think it would be wise to risk confronting him among all these guests.”

“Because of the explosives,” said Dame Leonie, needing no answer.

“We could request the Pope delay her arrival, but.…” Maetrich’s gesture indicated he realized that Pope An might not be willing to follow their suggestion.

“And he may have…associates here,” said Dame Leonie. Saying the words aloud made the possibility more real, but that did not terrify her, not as much as her first ill-formed worries had. “We don’t want to alarm them, in case there are others carrying weapons or—”

“Yes,” admitted Maetrich. “We have to make that assumption.”

Dame Leonie’s lips quirked into a mirthless smile. There were so few alternatives, and they were so obvious. “You don’t want to claim that there has been a bomb scare as an excuse to evacuate the building.”

“We would prefer not,” said Maetrich stiffly.

She nodded. “I would rather not, as well.” There were truly so few options available, she thought. “Then I suppose it would be best for me to find a reason to move him away from.…” She gestured to indicate the festivities around them.

Maetrich hesitated for an instant. “It could be risky.”

She was able to chuckle once. “Are you saying that having a Cardinal armed with a bomb in the middle of this isn’t risky?” She gave Maetrich no opportunity to answer. “Better a threat to three or four than a hundred, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” said Maetrich. “And there isn’t much time.”

Dame Leonie looked at her watch again. “Give me two minutes. Then be prepared.” She would not allow herself to say for what.

“It might be better if—” Maetrich said.

“He asked me to arrange for him to speak with the Pope as soon as she arrives. I think he will come with me.” She made expression pleasant once more. “There is a sitting room on the floor below. I’ll attempt to get him there.”

“Let me assign someone to come with you,” Maetrich requested as he recovered himself.

She favored him with her most polite smile. “We both know that would not be wise.” As she walked away from Maetrich she once again realized how much her feet hurt.

Cardinal Gemme was attempting to engage Jaime, Cardinal O’Higgins in a discussion of the dramatic political changes that had just taken place in Mexico. Neither man was prepared to listen to what the other had to say, and as a result they were doing little more than trading rhetoric.

“Cardinal Gemme, I wonder if I might have a little of your time,” said Dame Leonie, pleased that her voice sounded normal to her.

He looked over at her. “Yes?”

“You made a request of me a bit earlier?” Had he not been a Cardinal, she would have slipped her arm through his, but she was sure that this was more than Cardinal Gemme would tolerate. “If you will come with me?”

Cardinal O’Higgins gave a relieved gesture. “Please. Don’t let me keep you.” He had an empty champagne flute in his left hand, and this he held up. “Another time, Cardinal Gemme.”

As he followed Dame Leonie, Cardinal Gemme spoke softly, “The Pope?”

“I have a room on the floor below where you may speak privately with her. Once she arrives here, I doubt I would be able to find a way to assure your privacy.” Does that sound reasonable? she wondered. Or would he suspect the ploy as what it was?

“I am grateful,” said Cardinal Gemme energetically. “I knew you would arrange something suitable.”

“Something suitable?” she echoed. “I hope it may be.” She chose the rear stairs as the route to the floor below, the ones used by the waiters; with luck Cardinal Gemme would pay little attention to the staff. “I have inferred that you did not want your meeting with the Pope to be noted?”

“Yes. It must be in confidence,” said Cardinal Gemme sounding more excited than before. “How well you understand.”

Dame Leonie could find no word to answer him. As they reached the corridor on the lower floor, she pointed ahead and to the left. “It’s the second door. I’ll arrange for someone to watch, so you will not be disturbed.”

There was something in Cardinal Gemme’s scarred face that belied the civility of his words. “I was expecting you to remain with us. It wouldn’t be fitting for the Pope to be unchaperoned, not at such a function.” He stood so that Dame Leonie had to enter the room ahead of him, and once she was inside, he closed the door behind them. “I’m sure you agree?”

“You indicated this was to be confidential,” said Dame Leonie, taking pride in the ordinariness of her voice; she wanted to scream. “Surely you don’t want a”—she almost said witness—“…an interloper here?”

In the distance there was the sound of sirens. Both of them turned toward the tall windows.

“She’s coming,” said Cardinal Gemme, his face brightening. “At last.”

Dame Leonie heard the madness in his voice for the first time, and her courage all but failed her. “I am expected to greet her,” she said, panting on the last word.

“There are those who will attend to that,” said Cardinal Gemme.

Dame Leonie set her jaw and tried again. “If I don’t speak to her, she will not know to come here.”

“Inform one of the staff,” said Cardinal Gemme, his voice suddenly so cold that Dame Leonie shivered. “That is what they are here for.”

It was all she could do not to tremble. “All right,” she said as if speaking to a savage dog. She went on with care, as if Cardinal Gemme might not understand English. “I will give instructions, if that is satisfactory?”

“At once.” He had gone to the windows where he could watch the street below. “Listen to that. They shriek like the damned.”

As Dame Leonie opened the door, she stared at Axel Maetrich. “Cardinal Gemme wishes to speak with Pope An before she joins the others. He and I will be waiting here.” She regarded him for several seconds, knowing he could say nothing, but suddenly desperate for some sign of reassurance.

“You and he?” said Maetrich.

“Cardinal Gemme very sensibly doesn’t wish to make it appear that he is meeting Pope An in a clandestine manner.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “He’s asked me to…stay here.”

“Very good, Madame,” said Maetrich, and started away from the door.

Dame Leonie raised her voice a little. “You will deliver the message to Pope An?”

“The moment she arrives,” Maetrich assured her.

“That young priest is a very good coordinator,” said Cardinal Gemme unexpectedly. “You’re fortunate to have his services.”

“Yes,” said Dame Leonie, her attention distracted by the first sounds of the arrival of Pope An. Three motorcycles provided the advance escort, and as they fell silent the sounds of deeper sirens grew louder.

“Her humility does not extend to travel,” Cardinal Gemme observed in a flat tone. “But Jesus said little about modern transportation. I suppose she can decide what’s best to do without going back to the Gospels.” He turned away abruptly and directed his baleful gaze to Dame Leonie. “You approve of her, don’t you? You’re mesmerized along with the rest.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, since I am not Catholic,” said Dame Leonie.

“The whole world is deceived,” said Cardinal Gemme. “I was deceived with them, but I have been saved from myself, through Grace.” His hand strayed to the ugly weal running from his cheek to his jaw; only after he had touched his scar did he cross himself. “God demands sacrifice where there is sin. The greater the sin, the greater the sacrifice.”

“Cardinal Gemme,” said Dame Leonie with an effort, “perhaps it would be better to arrange another time for your discussion with Pope An. You have much on your mind, and it could be that you require—”

He rounded on her without warning. “Be silent,” he said very softly. “You are in a sacred place.”

Her mouth was dry and she was cold to the bone. She stepped back from him, no longer able to maintain her pretense that there was nothing strange about Cardinal Gemme’s behavior. “Eminence, please,” she whispered.

“There is no more Eminence. The Pope has ended Eminences.” He took up his post at the windows again. “Ah. There is the limousine. Six more motorcycles for escort. Who is deceived? She is a warlord surrounded by soldiers. They must bring their own light to find their way in the darkness,” he added contemptuously as the four stands of bright security lights were set up at regular intervals along the street.

“Perhaps she has reason to protect herself,” said Dame Leonie, chiding herself for her folly as she spoke.

“God will not be denied His vengeance. If she surrounded herself with tanks and warheads, she would not escape her pride.” He slipped his hand under his jacket. “It is a glorious thing to gain a martyr’s crown.”

She needed every bit of her will to keep from throwing herself on Cardinal Gemme. Dame Leonie knotted her hands in her skirt and ground her teeth, but still the desire to bash in Cardinal Gemme’s skull remained. As if from a great distance she heard herself say, “Give it up, Eminence. Don’t do this.”

Cardinal Gemme did not laugh, and for that Dame Leonie was thankful; his smile was ghastly enough. He stood at the windows, watching the limousine pull to the entrance, watching the men of her escort open the passenger door. “We will be delivered from evil, as God promised, but we will have to show that it is our desire to be delivered.”

Pope An was on the narrow sidewalk now, her simple black silk clothing as familiar as her serene features. She spoke briefly to her chauffeur, then looked toward the entry arch.

“What do you think?” asked Cardinal Gemme with detached curiosity. “Does she know she is the agent of Satan?”

Dame Leonie was unable to speak.

Dionigi Stelo and four of his assistants came through the archway and took up the task of escorting Pope An.

“Not much longer, Dame Leonie,” said Cardinal Gemme. “God will forgive you for helping her; you are an ignorant woman, and it is not your fault that you believed what you were told. Women are always prey to attractive deception, and Satan uses this weakness even as God forgives it.”

This slighting remark goaded Dame Leonie out of her fear. She prepared herself for action, aware that there would be one chance and one chance only to save herself. She stepped out of her torturous shoes, prepared to run when she could, then bent down to retrieve one of them.

Cardinal Gemme swung around toward her. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“My feet hurt,” she said honestly. “I’m taking off my shoes. I want to see if there is anything wrong inside them.” She indicated the high-heeled dress pump in her hand. “Do I have your permission?”

He was no longer listening. He had cocked his head, intent on the first footfalls from the floor below.

Dame Leonie held the shoe in her hand, turning it over slowly. The heel was very narrow, elegant and hard to balance on. She felt it, tried bending it, and was satisfied that the core was steel. Careless of her nails she began to peel back the guard at the base of the heel, exposing the metal.

A few sharp orders were heard as more feet came up the stairs. Cardinal Gemme left the window and went to the door, standing beside it, listening.

While Dame Leonie finished her task, she thought, I cannot believe I am doing this. I cannot believe that I am preparing to attack Cardinal Gemme. But she could not believe that Cardinal Gemme was mad enough to carry explosives on his body, to plan to ambush Pope An. She pulled away the last bit of guard. Now she had to choose the moment.

Someone called out and the steady progress of footsteps was halted. The shuffle and confusion that replaced the upward march was ominous.

“Soon, very soon,” said Cardinal Gemme, his hand still under his jacket. “There will be an end to the reign of the Antichrist.”

Dame Leonie closed her eyes. She had to strike and immobilize at the same time; for as long as Cardinal Gemme could reach the trigger, he could set off his deadly package. As sensible as it might be she knew she could not bring herself to strike at his head, for she was not capable of killing him. There had to be another target.

There were footsteps in the hall now, approaching the door.

Dame Leonie rushed forward, her shoe raised. She brought the heel down with all the force she possessed, and to her horror felt, after a minor resistance, the steel sink deep into the muscle where his neck joined his shoulder.

Cardinal Gemme screamed and struck out, his clenched hand slamming into the side of Dame Leonie’s head as his blood welled over his jacket and shirt, spattering the wall and the floor as he swung his arm again. His scream turned to a howl as he fell against the doorframe.

Dame Leonie staggered, sickened and dizzied.

There were shouts and running footsteps now. The door was flung open and Axel Maetrich stumbled through, a pistol in his hand, three men crouched behind him with weapons at the ready.

More men appeared in the hall, all holding pistols or tazers. Dionigi Stelo was among them, and he rapped out orders to the Vatican Security men, insisting that they remain where they were.

Cardinal Gemme started to whoop with pain and rage.

Axel Maetrich lowered his pistol. He stood over Cardinal Gemme, ignoring the Vatican Security weapons that were suddenly trained on him. He signaled to one of his Eurocops. “Grab his arms. Don’t let him touch anything. He’s carrying a bomb.”

Dionigi Stelo could not let this go unchallenged. “This is Cardinal Gemme. He is not some anarchist, he is a Prince of the Church.”

“And he’s carrying a bomb,” said Maetrich again. “We have proof. Don’t go near him, and don’t allow him to move.” Maetrich’s second moved close enough to Cardinal Gemme to stop any attempt he might make to start the fuse of his bomb.

“Someone get a doctor,” called Stelo. “The Cardinal is bleeding.” He watched in dismay as the red stain spread. He signaled one of his men to get moving. “Keep your mouth shut about this. Just bring the doctor and leave the rest to me.”

Maetrich was beside Dame Leonie now, his arm across her back. “You’ll be all right, Madame,” he said with great formality. “When I agreed to let you handle this, I didn’t expect anything quite like.…”

Dame Leonie was queasy now, and her head had not stopped ringing. She swayed, as much from shock as from hurt. “I didn’t think…Dear God, there’s so much blood.”

“You did a fine job,” Maetrich assured her in a low voice. “You were fine.”

Looking down, Dame Leonie saw that her skirt was dappled red, and she shuddered at the sight. “I must…I’ll have to change.” Her voice faded and she wobbled on her feet.

Maetrich held her up. “Not yet, Dame Leonie. There’s a little more to take care of.” He guided her to one of the low-slung chairs and helped her into it. “Take it easy. We’ll handle everything. We’ll remove Cardinal Gemme in a moment.”

There was another flurry of excitement at the door, and then Pope An came into the room. She looked first at Cardinal Gemme, now half-conscious and pale against the wall. She muttered a few words in Chinese, which caused Dame Leonie to glance up. “What has happened here?” the Pope inquired, looking directly at Dame Leonie.

“I…Cardinal Gemme…doesn’t seem himself,” Dame Leonie said weakly.

“Apparently not,” said Pope An, looking around a second time, this time turning her attention to Axel Maetrich. “What is this all about?”

Maetrich paid no heed to the angry glare Stelo shot in his direction.

“Cardinal Gemme is carrying explosives. A reinforced police van is on its way.”

“Really?” Pope An looked toward him. “How did you discover this?”

“There was…there was a timely warning,” said Maetrich.

“How very fortunate,” said Pope An dryly.

Though she had started to shake uncontrollably, Dame Leonie made herself speak. “Someone…a guest…informed me of the problem. I suggested that the Cardinal be discreetly checked, to determine if it was true. When it was established that he was carrying explosives, we selected a course of action.” She pressed her hands together, attempting to use the tension from that to stop trembling. “He was planning to kill you. And himself.”

“And you as well, it appears,” said Pope An. She moved a little nearer to Cardinal Gemme. “What an unexpected weapon.”

Maetrich stepped between Cardinal Gemme and Pope An. “Best to keep your distance,” he said.

Pope An obligingly moved back a step or two. “This is not to become another scandal,” she said to Maetrich, then motioned to Stelo. “Cardinal Gemme is to have the best protection. See to it.”

Dame Leonie started to ask a question, then thought better of it. Some other time, she thought. Some other time.

From where he lay, Cardinal Gemme began a steady, whimpering whine like the complaint of an abused puppy. His face was pasty but for the scar, which had gone raspberry bright.

“We’ll see he gets back to the Vatican without incident,” Stelo assured the Pope. “We’ll use closed vehicles and—”

“Back to the Vatican?” she repeated. “Oh, no, Stelo, I fear you have misunderstood me. I wish you to keep guard on him, so that he is not pestered by the newspeople. You cannot bring him to the Vatican unless the court allows it.” She looked around and saw Axel Maetrich in his priest’s disguise. “Sergeant, you have jurisdiction here. You must take Cardinal Gemme in charge. Stelo will accompany you, if that is satisfactory?”

Maetrich stared at Pope An. “You will not protest?”

“I?” said Pope An. “My authority does not extend to Roman law, Sergeant. Cardinal Gemme committed his crimes in Rome, not the Vatican, and as such he must be dealt with under Roman law.” She moved toward Dame Leonie. “If you think it necessary, have our protection given to Dame Leonie. Otherwise we must permit the Eurocops to do their work.”

“Then we had best leave the room to them,” said Dionigi Stelo, his features rigid with disapproval. “Since you will not permit us to do our work.”

Pope An met his eyes directly. “I most certainly will permit you do to your work. What I will not allow is for you to do the work of Eurocops and Interpol. As a Magistrate, I respect the limits of the law.” Her attention shifted to Axel Maetrich. “Pay attention to what I say. You will not be allowed to encroach on the work of Vatican security.”

Finally Dame Leonie stopped shaking, and a profound lethargy stole upon her.

“As you say, Madame,” Maetrich agreed. He signaled to one of his men. “Accompany the Pope upstairs. And one of you, take Dame Leonie to a quiet place where she can recover. And ask her to make a preliminary report.”

Dame Leonie roused herself from this torpor that threatened to overcome her. “There is a study on this floor, if that will do,” she said, doing her best to restore a more normal tone to this most abnormal situation. As she started toward the door she was pleasantly astonished to find that her legs would support her. She also realized that she was still barefoot, and felt a rush of embarrassment that was as senseless as it was intense.

“Dame Leonie,” said Pope An as she came up to her, “I am most humbly grateful to you for your courage. Without you, I fear many of these men would be injured, and I might well be dead.” She bowed formally, adding in Chinese, “I am in your debt.”

“No, no,” said Dame Leonie, shocked that Pope An would think such a thing; she would have protested more had the physician not arrived with Eurocop escort to tend to Cardinal Gemme and the police cleared the room of everyone but Dionigi Stelo, Axel Maetrich, the physician, and the whimpering Cardinal.

Chapter 28

Officially it was a relaxing weekend for President Carey; unofficially it was a confrontation he had sought to avoid. As he got out of his helicopter in the middle of the back pasture of Elihu Nimmo’s land, he hoped that there were no media types keeping watch with long-range binoculars. He waved to the riders who waited for him on restive horses, the three of them each leading a second, saddled horse.

“Climb aboard,” offered Tom Nimmo, holding out the reins of the tallest of the three horses to the President. “He’s used to big men.”

“I haven’t been on a horse in a decade,” Carey protested as he took the reins and prepared to mount. Tall as he was, he found the seventeen-one-hand black gelding formidable. He wished now he had worn something more substantial than running shoes and light-weight slacks.

“Shadow won’t mind. He’s gentle and easy, just the way your secretary told us you like ‘em,” Cliff Anderson said, glancing toward their companion. “You said you wanted to talk in private.”

“This is pretty private, I’ll give you that,” Carey conceded as he mounted and met Cardinal Mendosa’s eyes on the level. He pulled the big gelding back. “The other horses?”

“For your bodyguards, Secret Service and what-all. We’ll leave a couple of them here to watch you and take the rest back to the house. Don’t worry,” Tom assured him, “we know how to get to the barns without attracting attention.”

“Good,” said President Carey, and swung Shadow around to walk beside Cardinal Mendosa’s grulla. “They told me you like to ride, Cardinal.” It was the best opening he could think of.

“Used to. I don’t have the time for keeping up my touch. It was different way back when. Junior rodeo and the rest of it, when I was a kid,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “But I’m lucky if I ride one day a year now. There are times I miss it.” He nudged his grulla with the side of his leg and the gelding slid away. “I used to ride his mother, twenty years ago. He’s thirteen, as I remember.” He shrugged. “You’re not here to discuss horseflesh.”

“No,” said the President. “We have a number of problems we have to review. They’re all urgent.”

“I’m sure we do, and they are,” said Cardinal Mendosa, giving his nephew a single wave as Tom started back toward the ranch house, leading two of the Secret Service men. “If you hadn’t called me, I would probably have tried to reach you. But I would have understood if you hadn’t wanted to talk to me, with separation of Church and State.”

“I wish I could stand on that, you have no idea how much I wish I could, but it isn’t possible. Not with all this millennial fever. The entire world’s going crazy. Thank God I only have to worry about America—it’s bad enough. You know what Williamson has been saying. Marcus is worse. You didn’t hear his harangue last night, I’d guess. He’s trying to get his people to identify all Christians they don’t agree with so that when the Last Days come, they’ll know who to kill and won’t get the wrong people by mistake. Patton’s been telling his followers to burn down all religious buildings but his own. He has promised a place in heaven for anyone who ruins any church or synagogue or mosque or whatever that isn’t part of his Revelationist Pentecostal Church. They wrecked a meeting house in Cleveland yesterday. A meeting house, for Chrissake. What’s the point of attacking Quakers? Reverend Thorn’s Fundamentalist Coalition has staged demonstrations in a dozen major cities over the last week, saying that the world is going to end. And there are tens of thousands of people who’re agreeing with him. There’s even a large organization of Jews who are saying that the Messiah is coming—for the first time—by the end of this year.” He saw a stand of cottonwood about a quarter of a mile away. “It would be a good idea to get into cover. Just in case. We don’t want to be spotted. Is it possible?”

“Lead the way,” said Cardinal Mendosa, nudging his grulla to a jog-trot. “When I was twenty I could ride this way all day and never feel a thing. Now, if I’m in the saddle more than two hours my back’s stiff as cordwood. And my legs are terrible.” He made a dismissing gesture. “So what is the most pressing? The Fundamentalist crunch or the anti-Catholic activities of the last several months? Or what happened in Tampa last week? It can’t be Cardinal Gemme’s breakdown can it?—that was less than four days ago.”

“Didn’t that surprise you, Cardinal Gemme doing that?” President Carey could not resist asking.

“It fair to bowled me over. Marc-Luc is the kind of man who’s always been proud of how forward-thinking he is, and how reasonable. He’s got a lot of press over the years on those counts. And now this.” He shook his head. “Maybe it wasn’t the attack that got him, maybe it was this millennial looniness.”

“And you leave for Rome tomorrow, don’t you?” asked President Carey, hating the steady jarring pace.

“Very early, yes,” he said. “As you were certainly aware. I have assumed you wanted this meeting to be wholly confidential, or you might have arranged for me to reach Rome via Washington D.C.”

“If I wanted every newsman in the U.S. and Canada on the front lawn, that would be the way to do it.” He pulled his black in as they neared the stand of cottonwood. “I might as well announce I’ve chosen sides; that’s what they’d make of it, no matter what we said. But there’s been too much of that already.”

“You have a point,” said Cardinal Mendosa, also slowing his horse. “Tell me what you want to discuss, then.”

Now that he had the opportunity he sought, President Carey hesitated. “I don’t want to tell the Catholic Church its business.”

“But you’re going to anyway, at least so far as the U. S. of A. is concerned,” Cardinal Mendosa finished for him, his manner steady and friendly. “That’s your job, isn’t it? And it probably has something to do with the disputes that keep cropping up between Vince Walgren and me, am I right? You have to make the effort to end the hostilities between those who agree with him and those who agree with me.”

“Cardinal Walgren has been very outspoken,” said President Carey.

“He’s been outspoken ever since he got his red hat,” said Cardinal Mendosa bluntly. “He’s been riding his success at stopping Hispanic gangs from proliferating and having wars and riots in Southern California for all its worth, and now it suddenly gives him worldly political clout to use his popularity with that portion of the Catholic community to disrupt all the things the Pope has been doing. He’s got the credibility in the public eye, and that makes a difference.” He looked over at President Carey as he stopped his grulla. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“Among other things, yes,” said Carey. “He is determined to persuade American Catholics to reject your requests for giving Pope An the benefit of the doubt. He might very well try to make his followers, or your followers, seem like splinter groups from real Catholicism. You are aware that he has been very critical of your support of Pope An for the last half year.”

“I could hardly miss it,” said Cardinal Mendosa dryly. “Yes, Vince Walgren doesn’t like the way things are going. He has taken it upon himself to interfere with the reforms Pope An has introduced. Vince Walgren tends to forget that the Pope is the final authority in the Church, Chinese woman or not.” He looked over at President Carey. “I’m assuming that if you expect me to keep your confidence, you will keep mine?”

“Of course,” said President Carey, just a little too quickly.

Cardinal Mendosa pretended he had not heard this too-prompt agreement. “You see, Cardinal Walgren—if I may be blunt?—has trouble with women. He resents them. He is anti-abortion, not because of the soul of the unborn, but because he believes that women must suffer for the Sin of Eve. The press hasn’t paid much attention to that side of him. He wants women punished for being able to get pregnant. He has dogmatically opposed any change in the status of women in the Church. Unfortunately, he has taken the Apostle Paul as his guide, and Pope An has put a stop to that, for everyone in the Church. Apostles won’t do it any more. The only authority she will recognize is Christ.” He rested his forearm on the saddlehorn and leaned forward. “The changes Pope An have made for women in the Church have troubled Cardinal Walgren deeply. He’s feeling undermined and he has to do something to shore himself up. The appointment of Prioress Wilgefortis Standart to the Curia, the Congregation of the Propaganda, was the last straw for him, not to mention most of the Curia. He is aware that it is not wise to attack the Pope directly, not even this Pope. He is convinced he’s right, but not so convinced that he wants to chance excommunication. But he is determined to attack her supporters, preferably her American supporters. Which means me.”

“You do support Pope An,” said President Carey.

“Yes, I do, completely and unreservedly,” said Cardinal Mendosa, adding simply, “And I will continue to support her as long as God gives me life.”

“And no matter what her rule does to the Church,” President Carey went on, prodding.

“Since her election was determined by the Holy Spirit, I wouldn’t be a very good Cardinal if I set myself against the Pope. Okay, I haven’t always seen eye-to-eye with the Throne of Saint Peter, I admit it. But Pope An is something different. I know how…startled we all were when we elected her. Twice. There wasn’t anyone politicking for her, and no one who stood to profit from her election. Because none of us knew she existed. But she was elected. Whatever she does, she does it with the license of the Holy Spirit, and that is an authority that no true Catholic can question.” He cleared his throat. “Some of what she does might be a bitter pill for a few of our guys to swallow, but that’s not the fault of the Holy Spirit or Pope An. That is the human capacity for mistake.”

“No matter what Cardinal Walgren does, or says,” said President Carey heavily.

“No matter what,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “But don’t worry; I don’t want to lock horns with him if I can help it. I don’t like to see the Church so divided at a time like this. The rest of Christendom has turned itself inside out over the beginning of the Third Millennium. The Mormons are dashing off to the far corners of the earth on their crusade, and the way the Baptists are acting, we ought to be weaving robes of white wool. I’d rather the Catholic Church didn’t join those festivities. We’ve had more than enough of that this last year.” He rubbed his eyes. “I can’t stop supporting Pope An, but I can urge Catholics not to be drawn into religious disputes, either with other Catholics or members of other sects or religions. I can give a press conference to that effect, if you like; on my next visit we can arrange for some kind of ecumenical debate, if that seems like a good idea. In the meantime I can arrange to tape a dozen different spots you can show anywhere in the country. I can slant them for regions or for Protestants instead of Catholics. Hell, I’ll talk to Jews and Muslims and Buddhists and Hindus and Zoroastrians and pagans and atheists and people who worship the strange little guys from outer space, if it’ll help. I can tape a couple of lectures, too, that clarify the role of the Pope in the Church, so those who are worried about Pope An might be less upset. I’d be very happy to do that; we’ve got a little studio of sorts at Four Evangelists, and I can have the tapes ready for you before I fly out of here,” Cardinal Mendosa offered. He sneezed once and went on. “I don’t know if it would make much difference, but I’m willing to try that or any other reasonable means of diminishing the hostilities.”

“Religious battles at the start of a re-election campaign.…” President Carey opened his hands to show how futile it felt to him.

“I do understand, Mister President,” said Cardinal Mendosa. This time he stopped the sneeze before it got started. “It’s the number, you know, the two thousand. It has them all spooked, and that includes Republicans and Democrats.” He sniffed. “Have you talked to Alex Bradeston yet?”

“Last week,” said President Carey. “He told me that the situation in New England was getting very disturbing. I don’t know what to do about that situation, though there’s going to be violence before too long. If I interfere, it’s against the Constitution, because I would be disallowing freedom of religion. I don’t argue with the principle, but the abuses of it.… That Julian Salonipolis has been stirring up all kinds of trouble, most of it along sexual lines, calling for a return to traditional Christian values, meaning bigotry and the rest of it,” he said, watching as Cardinal Mendosa drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Is something the matter?”

Cardinal Mendosa gestured to the trees. “I’m allergic to cottonwood,” he said, ending on a lavish sneeze. “Sorry.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” President Carey demanded.

“Because I agree with you about security. And most people around here know I never go near cottonwood. So clearly, whoever’s over here sure as shit ain’t me. It’s a double screen.” He blew his nose and looked directly at the President. “Go on. Traditional Christian values, meaning the most repressive rules Paul could think up, like telling women to be silent in church and submissive to the rule of their husbands; and the resultant fifteen hundred years of the erosion of legal rights for women, and the diminished position of children, and the adapting of those dicta to endorse a social order that reduced most of European females to the position of property.” Seeing Carey’s expression he managed to chuckle. “Does it surprise you, my attitude about this? Why should it? We’re not all of us conservative bastards who never got over the way our mamas toilet-trained us.”

“Clearly not,” said President Carey, aware that he had underestimated Cardinal Mendosa. The rangy Texan with the badger-grey hair was a force to reckon with. He decided to ask one unguarded question. “Why do you keep doing it, knowing the deck is stacked against you?”

Cardinal Mendosa sniffed his way through a laugh. “Oh, pure cussedness, in part. At least half of the time. Someone has to hold up our end of the table.” He grew serious; he turned his reddened eyes on President Carey. “Though there is one more thing: truly, in my heart of hearts, I believe.”

* * *

Clancy McEllton sat at the writing desk in his Paris hotel suite and scribbled notes from time to time as Cardinal Hetre paced up and down, gesturing and ranting about the legal debate over Cardinal Gemme. He listened only to the cadence of the rise and fall of the inflection of the Cardinal’s voice and paid no heed to the subject matter.

“What is the worst of it all is that they are calling him mad. Mad! As if a man undertaking such a mission must be mad to do it. Once a man has thought of it, he must be mad not to act.” He stopped moving and glared at McEllton. “You probably think so, too, that he is mad, in your lapsed way. You must be like that French jurist, the one who gave the long analysis last night on the news. You’ve decided that Cardinal Gemme broke under stress, or something like that. You support the theory that Cardinal Gemme was irrational.”

“I don’t have an opinion, and I don’t know enough to subscribe to any theory. And I don’t care enough to learn much more.” said Clancy McEllton, wishing that Greene would arrive and take the Cardinal off his hands.

Spurred by his headache, Cardinal Hetre paced more frantically. “This entire thing is a disaster. Their plans were ill-conceived, and Cardinal Gemme botched the work completely. It has forced us to curtail our actions and their plan failed. We might have proceeded undetected until the work was over.”

“That’s probably true,” said the other man. He wanted to make his notepaper into an airplane and see if he could hit the moving target of Cardinal Hetre with it. The man was impossible, all but hysterical in his hatred of Pope An, but unable to commit himself to the necessary actions to end her reign.

“According to Gemme, there were others in it with him. Sinclair for one, I think. The Irish are a mercurial race, aren’t they, and they are preoccupied with death. There’ve been items in the paper about Cardinals Sinclair and Gemme.” Cardinal Hetre turned abruptly away, sickened by what he said. “Why would he reveal the names?”

“How do you know he really gave away anything. Perhaps he made them up, to make him seem less guilty? Maybe he chose the names of men who said things he agreed with,” suggested Clancy, drawing squares around Cardinal Sinclair’s name. He was not surprised that Cardinal Gemme had had accomplices, or that he had revealed names, since he took so much pride in what he had attempted to do.

“But why implicate those men? Cardinal Dellegos—who pays any attention to him? Cardinal Sinclair has some impact in the world, but Cardinal Dellegos? Croatia can’t bring itself to decide what part of the country it wants to keep and what part it wants to throw away. Why should Cardinal Dellegos be drawn into anything like.…” He waved his arms. His head was surrounded by fangs and he had to force himself to keep from shouting as relief for the pain.

“Perhaps he thought doing something on a wider scope would help his country come to its senses?” Clancy scribbled a few more meaningless notes, then heard his telephone ring. He rose with alacrity to answer it.

Rufus Greene promised to arrive in a few minutes, and wanted to be prepared for the state of mind of Cardinal Hetre. He listened to Clancy’s deliberately vague phrases, knowing how to sort out the real information.

“Tell him that we will have to be more careful and more thorough now because the police have been alerted, and they are not so foolish as Cardinal Hetre would like to believe.”

“I shan’t put it quite that way,” said Clancy, “but I’ll get it across, believe me.” He put the receiver down and gave Cardinal Hetre a brief, carefully edited version of what Mister Greene had said. “He’s in as delicate a position as you are, in some ways. He’s going to be joining us shortly. He has to make a call to International Vision, Ltd.”

“Excellent,” said Cardinal Hetre. He swung around to watch Clancy more closely. “I am not able to think clearly. I have prayed for guidance but none has come. I am too demanding, and God does not respond to demands.”

“What’s the problem now?” Clancy asked, permitting Cardinal Hetre’s determined prodding to take effect.

“How am I to deal with Cardinal Gemme? I have received permission to visit him next week.” He moved his bony hands through the air as if clutching for something he alone could see. “He and I have always disagreed, but now we find ourselves in agreement. Yet he is confined for doing what I have lacked the courage to do. I have to know what is expected of me.”

“You and Mister Greene will decide that between you,” said Clancy, feeling grateful that he would not have to deal with any of those negotiations. “In the meantime, I’m going to do a little snooping around the College of Cardinals, to find out if it’s true about Dellegos. If he has been part of one plot, he might want to join another.”

“Or he might seek to betray us,” said Cardinal Hetre with contempt. “What can you expect of such a man as Dellegos? We would be more sensible to ask someone of the stature of Cardinal Ochoa or Cardinal Bakony. Both those men have political as well as religious reasons to support the discrediting of the Chinese woman. You ought to talk with them.”

“I might, if Dellegos doesn’t turn out. And there are advantages to someone like Dellegos, because he isn’t obvious.” Clancy sat on the corner of the luncheon table. “That’s my work, Eminence.”

“But Dellegos has been part of a plot, or so it appears. Whatever his role, he was aware of danger to the Pope and said nothing, that would appear to be certain. He will be reluctant to be drawn into another one after what has become of Cardinal Gemme.” It was the only thing Hetre thought would penetrate the wall of skepticism that so completely isolated him.

“That he might, if he knew what I was asking and why. But if he still believes that the Church ought to be rid of Pope An, then there may be a way for us to enroll him.” He sighed once. “I suppose I’ll have to use poor old Uncle Neddy again. No wonder he went into a monastery, and a silent one at that.”

“Does it bother you that your uncle will not see you?” asked Cardinal Hetre suddenly.

“It did, but not any more,” said Clancy, unperturbed by the question. “I used to think that he didn’t see me because he wanted to break with the family. But after all the lunacy of the last couple of years, I guess what Uncle Neddy wants to be free of is the whole world. He found the only way he could to shut it out. Poor old fart.” He paid no attention to the shock in Cardinal Hetre’s face. “I told my cousins who worry about him that he doesn’t like publicity.”

Cardinal Hetre was about to chastise Clancy for this irreverent attitude toward so important a member of his family, then thought better of it. Rufus Greene was about to arrive and it would not be wise to greet him with disagreement. He decided that it would be best to keep to a matter that was important to them both. It went against every principle he knew, but Cardinal Hetre was learning to deal with these worldly men. “You’ll have a better understanding of this than I do,” he said to flatter Clancy’s vanity. “And to tell the truth, I haven’t been following the papers very closely, not about Cardinal Gemme. The only thing I know is that he is being held at a hospital while his mental state is evaluated. What has the press said about the likelihood of Cardinal Gemme’s standing trial?”

“It doesn’t sound real likely.” Clancy was not very surprised that the whole Cardinal Gemme mess was being kept under wraps. “No one wants him to talk very much. The psychiatrists are debating over the legal responsibility of his actions, and there’s the medical question of the injury to his shoulder and back. From what the hospital has released, Cardinal Gemme might have lost some mobility from the penetration of the shoe-heel.”

“What damage?” asked Cardinal Hetre, holding still so that his headache would not make him feel dizzy.

“Apparently there might be some nerve damage. She drove that heel in pretty deep and it got near the spine. According to the scans they did, one of the nerves was unsheathed. That’s all the report said. There’s been no discussion of a prognosis. They aren’t saying much about his mental state yet, just hedging their bets.” He hitched his shoulders. “And between the regular doctors and the head doctors, I don’t think Cardinal Gemme will ever see the inside of a courtroom. They’ll probably arrange for close, personal attention at a hospital somewhere in Switzerland, or Sweden or another of the neutral countries. He’ll be taken good care of, and kept away from the public. And if he isn’t nuts now, he will be after a couple years of that kind of treatment. No mess, no publicity, no embarrassment. That ought to satisfy everyone.”

“But what of Cardinal Gemme? Won’t there be any official testimony at all? Won’t he be permitted to make an official statement, at least to the Church?” In spite of his determination not to be shocked, Cardinal Hetre was just that. “There will be no opportunity for Cardinal Gemme to explain his actions, and no test of them. How could it be allowed to happen.”

“Allowed? It’ll be encouraged. And most everyone will think it’s a great idea. Except the Pope, I’d bet, and some of the police,” said Clancy at his most charming and cynical.

Cardinal Hetre again suppressed the urge to dispute Clancy’s statement. He was determined not to make himself appear as demented as Cardinal Gemme had clearly become. He folded his arms, pressing inward so that he might lessen the urge to vomit. “Isn’t Mister Greene supposed to be here?”

“That he is,” said Clancy, wishing that Greene would come through the door and take Cardinal Hetre off his hands. “I guess International Vision, Ltd. has more to tell him than usual.”

“Who are they, do you know?” asked Cardinal Hetre.

“You mean other than connected somehow to the American Reverend Robert Williamson and all his various enterprises? No, I don’t know who they are. I find it best not to ask such questions, Cardinal.” He scribbled Williamson on the pad and surrounded it with question marks. “People who want to stay hidden—it’s best if that’s the way it’s done. So long as they’re on our side, we accept what they offer and don’t get drawn into their workings. You uncover too much, and you’ll be covered over.” He laughed at his observation. “They aren’t afraid of Cardinals, Cardinal. They aren’t afraid of anything but exposure.”

“Reverend Williamson has been gaining many, many…followers.”

“Converts?” suggested Clancy, and felt relief as the first short rap on the door announced the arrival of Mister Rufus Greene.

He came into the room, anonymous and dapper as ever, his very neatness giving him a kind of invisibility. He looked from Clancy to Cardinal Hetre and felt the animosity between them as if there were thunder in the air. He twitched a minuscule smile to both of them, then gestured to the three settees in the center of the room. “Why don’t we all be comfortable?” he suggested, giving a quick glance toward Clancy.

“How can we do that?” asked Cardinal Hetre even as he sank down on the tapestry-upholstered cushions. “How can anyone be comfortable in such a world?”

“Why, one learns how the world works,” said Greene in his usual unruffled way. “And when one knows that, one goes with the workings rather than against them. You can accomplish more when you are not fighting all the current. It is the principle of aikido.” He put his carrying case down. “Please. Let me show you what I have brought with me.”

“What have you brought?” asked Clancy, by way of encouragement.

“I have obtained—it would not be discreet for me to say how—a copy of the statement provided by the Eurocops assigned to this case. Never mind how they came into my hands. I have it on excellent authority that this is what is being submitted to Vatican Security. It makes very interesting reading.” As he spoke he drew out a large bundle of printouts. “Italian first, then French, and then English translation. You may find it interesting to pay special attention to the comments I have highlighted.”

Clancy picked up one of the long sheets and skimmed through it, whistling once as he came upon something that interested him. “It isn’t over yet.”

“How do you mean that?” Cardinal Hetre was reading much more slowly, as much to be sure he grasped all the significance of the statement as because his headache was increasing steadily.

“Well, if half of what Cardinal Gemme has said is true, we will have no difficulty in finding others to help us,” Clancy said, pointing to a reference to Cardinal Llanos of Managua. “Most of the Latin Americans are having a great deal of trouble. You don’t read about it very much in the papers, and lots of it isn’t reported at all. The upper churchmen are conservative, most of them, all tied into the political regimes, one way or another. They are trying to stave off changes. But a great many of the priests and monks and nuns are solidly on the side of the Pope’s reforms.”

Mister Greene nodded emphatically. “Yes, an excellent point. Many of those Cardinals have a great deal to lose if the reforms are permitted to take hold. Their people have not yet learned how sweeping those reforms are, and so they are confused; and they do not necessarily support the Pope because they dislike Orientals.” He folded his hands over his watch-fob and vest. “Don’t you think we can turn this to advantage?”

“Yes, if we make sure not to permit the same kinds of mistakes that Cardinal Gemme and his group have made,” said Clancy. He set the printouts aside. “There are times when you have to leave things to professionals.”

Rufus Greene leaned back on his heels. “I don’t know if it’s been on the news yet, but there was a major food riot in Rio de Janeiro last night. It has nothing to do with the Church specifically but the unrest and uncertainty brought about by all these changes have increased the instability in Brazil to the point that the government might well be compromised.” He looked from Clancy to Cardinal Hetre, his face wreathed in smiles. “Don’t you see? The Latin Americans will be the key to this.”

“But what makes you think this will happen?” asked Cardinal Hetre, wanting to shake Greene and set him straight about the Latin American Cardinals, who were as diverse in their politics as they were in social origin. Three of these Cardinals had survived bloody revolutions in the last five years, and all three of them had made peace in different ways.

“It will happen because they are already closer to the edge,” said Mister Greene, adding, “I know you don’t believe me, Cardinal Hetre. But as you have your areas of expertise, so I have mine, and this is one of them. You may know the inner workings of the College of Cardinals, but I have a body of information about the Church and its position in the world today, particularly in Third World countries. I wouldn’t say what I have if I didn’t actually believe that I am correct.” He swung around to look at Clancy. “We will review the possibilities later. For the time being, we must learn all that we can from Cardinal Hetre. Without his knowledge we are lost.”

Cardinal Hetre did not actually preen as he heard this, but he stood a little straighter and he made a motion as if he were polishing the lapels of his dark business suit, and his lapel pins. Most of the time both Greene and McEllton seemed to have no regard for his expertise and his opinion, but at last they were beginning to appreciate him. “I am pleased to help in any way I can,” he said, making it clear that he considered his contribution more crucial than what the other two had to offer.

* * *

“I wish you would be more candid with me, Sergeant,” said Pope An as she handed back the report Axel Maetrich had submitted to Vatican Security and to her. “You are at such pains to keep from shocking me.”

In his priest’s clothing, Maetrich appeared five years younger than he did in standard street clothing. He stood very straight. “Madame, it isn’t my intention to misrepresent the danger, but I don’t want to make it appear that you are at greater risk than we have reason to believe you are.”

“Oh, very good,” she approved. “Saying two things at once, and so well.” She rose and came around the end of her desk. “If you were appearing before me as a Magistrate and not in this office, you know I would not accept what you have said. Here you believe you must couch your language carefully. I am not one of those creatures who retreated from life into the Church, I am someone who came here at invitation, when I was a widow with many responsibilities. Do me the courtesy to remember that. And remember I was the one Cardinal Gemme attempted to kill, not you.” She watched him flush, and remained silent while her rebuke sunk in. “I may have been the one intended to die when Cardinal Tayibha was poisoned.”

“You’re right,” he admitted after several long seconds. “I have been attempting to shield you from what we’ve found out. You must realize I find it difficult to think of you as I might think of another woman.”

“Think of me as another Magistrate and I will be pleased,” said Pope An. “Now, then, let us review what you have brought to me. You tell me that there were four Cardinals who conspired against me. The four were Ruhig, Sinclair, Dellegos, and Bellau. Also, of course, Gemme. Gemme was given the opportunity to kill me because the four believed he had the greatest likelihood to be in my company and to be near me without suspicion, and in that they were right.” She looked at Maetrich. “Am I in line with your thought thus far?”

“Yes, Your Hol—” He broke off and began again. “Yes, Pope An.”

She was not distracted by his slip. “It was agreed that Cardinal Gemme would have the greatest opportunity to kill me at the reception Dame Leonie gave, because the security was to be handled by Vatican Security instead of the Eurocops. Apparently they reckoned the various devices used by the Eurocops for such occasions as diplomatic functions and airport clearances would not be used here.”

“Apparently, or they assumed that Cardinal Gemme would not be subjected to any inspection,” said Maetrich. He wanted very badly to sit down and have a drink of water, but neither of these things seemed possible.

“Because of Dionigi Stelo, he was able to enter without any check,” said Pope An. “Yes, that has been established. And he wanted to martyr himself to the preservation of the Church, or something of the sort? Yes, that must be it.” She nodded. “Chinese people do not give themselves up to that kind of religion, but we have often followed leaders in the way this Cardinal Gemme has given himself to his purpose.” She strolled along the office floor. “Have I failed to grasp the situation? At least in regard to Cardinal Gemme?”

“Yes, most definitely,” said Maetrich stiffly. He wanted to tell her to set guards around her day and night, to make certain she was constantly observed and protected, but he knew she would have none of it.

“And the other men? What is to be done about them?” She grasped her left elbow with her right hand. “Or hasn’t that been decided yet?”

Once again Maetrich flushed. “There are…jurisdictional complications. We can’t simply arrest them on the word of Cardinal Gemme until it is decided that his word will stand up in court.”

“And it is not likely that will happen, is it?” She said it pleasantly enough, but there was something rather hard in her eyes. “No one wants any more embarrassment, and they are counting on the shame of the other men to be sufficient to keep them away from similar plots. Yes, the Church is not so different from the government of Premier Zuo. Always one must save face, no matter how dangerous such vanity may be. I would assume that the Eurocops are prepared to place those Cardinals under surveillance, if they haven’t done so already?”

“They have been watched by Vatican Security and the Eurocops, and will continue to be watched for at least another three or four months, longer if there seems to be reason to continue. For example, if we discover the identity of Cardinal Tayibha’s killer,” Maetrich conceded. “You’ve done an excellent job, Pope An. You sum up very capably, and you grasp the essentials. I wish some of my men could do as well.” It was a sincere compliment and not just an attempt to return to her good opinion. “In future I won’t try to keep the worst from you.”

“Thank you. I will be most grateful.” She bowed to him, and saw that he was nonplused. “You may bow, if that would ease you.”

He imitated her actions. “Thank you.” As he straightened up he saw that she was smiling. “What is it?”

“Nothing, Sergeant.” She hesitated, then explained. “I was just thinking that you are the fifth person here who is willing to observe the forms I find most comfortable. I have tried to learn the proper way for Rome, but I miss my Chinese manners. Dame Leonie, Willie Foot, Cardinal Mendosa, and Cardinal Cadini are the only ones who have shown me that courtesy thus far.”

“Would you like me to do this for you?” Sergeant Maetrich was aghast at himself for suggesting such an unpardonable familiarity.

Her smile grew. “Oh, that would be quite wonderful.”

* * *

“I can’t take much more of this,” murmured Dame Leonie from behind her menu. She pinched the edge of the beautiful Florentine stock on which the fare was printed, trying not to grip the paper too tightly and give herself away. She bit the inside of her cheeks and made herself read the dishes offered this evening. From tables all around the elegant restaurant diners were turning inquisitive and speculative eyes on her.

“Would you like to leave?” Willie asked, concerned because he saw the strain in her eyes. “I’ll take care of the bill and we can slip out the back.”

She shook her head defiantly. “I’m a diplomat. I have to stick it out or I’ll never be able to do my job, will I?”

“You mean like getting back on a horse when it’s thrown you?” He wanted to reach out his hand to her, but held his impulse in check. “I don’t think this is quite the same thing.”

“Oh, yes it is,” said Dame Leonie. “It’s exactly the same thing. One of the reasons you get back on the horse is to convince the horse you can, and the other reason is to convince yourself,” she said with quiet determination. “I’ve been able to deal with everything Arthur has thrown at me. I have to deal with this as well.”

Willie smiled, deep, quiet mischief burgeoning in him. “You mean the current rumor that you really are the Pope’s lesbian lover? Or does the status of hero bother you.”

“Some of both,” she admitted. “The former is more troublesome than the latter. I wish there were something I could do about it. But if I draw attention to it, it only makes people think—”

“I don’t know what to do about the hero part, but I can stop the other rumors cold,” he said, having no idea where his sudden brazenness came from, but quite delighted with it.

“How? Not in time for tonight,” she said, her brows drawing together. “How can you do it, Willie?”

“It’s very simple, really.” He set his menu aside and dropped his napkin on the service plate. “Stand up and I’ll show you,” he promised, rising as he spoke.

She regarded him with a little annoyance and bewilderment; more to please him than to find any real relief from the staring she stood beside him. “What did you have in mind.”

“A little information dissemination,” said Willie, grinning at his own wit. As he said this he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her tightly against him, his mouth meeting hers with abiding passion. He felt her stiffen with surprise, then gradually relax as she drew herself tighter against him. Her mouth opened and their kiss deepened. Slowly he moved his hands up her back and caught her hair. She shook her head to free her tailored coiffeur, scattering pins over the napery as her glossy brown locks spilled over his fingers.

The whispers in the restaurant turned to buzzes and then grew to a few louder exclamations as the patrons goggled.

Very reluctantly Willie released Dame Leonie a little, giving her two quick, light kisses before he remarked to no one in particular, “We are celebrating our engagement tonight. We are going to marry in six months, when she is free.” He paid no attention to the brief, shocked gasp from Leonie and offered the room a general bow. “We’ve been lovers for some time. Now that the Church has made it possible, we are going to be married lovers.”

In England the diners would not have looked directly at the two of them—that would be too direct. Here in Rome there was no such reserve and the rest of the diners stared and pointed as Willie handed Leonie her menu as he sat down again.

Bemused, she accepted it as she sank back into her seat. “Why on earth did you do it,” she whispered.

“To end the rumors. Because it is the truth.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “By morning every news service in Europe will know about this and all you will have to do is blush at the mention of my name.”

“Pope An might not like this,” she said, then motioned him to hold his tongue as the waiter approached.

“We would like to present a bottle of champagne to you, Madame. And to you, Sir,” said the waiter in flawless English. “In appreciation.”

Dame Leonie was about to think of a polite refusal when Willie nodded energetically. “That’s very good of you. Thank the management for me, will you?”

“For heaven’s sake, Willie,” Dame Leonie whispered as the waiter went away, chest plumped with satisfaction.

“Lends credence to what we’ve done. Now choose an appetizer, won’t you? Something romantic.” He smiled hugely. “Now Sir Arthur can say whatever he likes; he won’t come off very well, will he?”

“I suppose not,” she said doubtfully, then laughed once. “No, no, he won’t come off well at all.”

Chapter 29

Now he knew how the vision would end; it gripped him in horror. To see that tranquil and radiant face eradicated, vanishing so terribly, so swiftly. Every time he witnessed this atrocity he strove to prevent it. He could feel himself in the vision straining to reach her in time, to place himself between her and destruction. The loss of her light, of her serenity and wisdom was more than he could bear. As he lay in a state that was not sleep he felt his ephemeral hands reach out to her, knowing already the gesture was futile, that he was restrained. He shouted to God to protect her in a voice that was only part of the vision. Beyond that vision was the vastness of mystery, and he pursued it, struggling against unknown barriers to reach it, to follow her, guard her. He could not imagine the world with her gone from it. The joy of her faith—a word she disdained—was too dear for him to lose, even to God. The ruin of her body would take her beyond the places his visions reached; he fought despair.

Her inaudible voice spoke to him internally. “Mendosa, it is fitting.”

“Worthy Magistrate,” he protested in the vision, and thrashed on his bed.

“Let it go, Mendosa. Let it go.” Her body was wreckage, pitiful and enraging, but he sensed her smile and her faint amusement. How could she laugh at death? he asked himself. How could she die so willingly for something she did not believe?

“It isn’t a question of belief, my friend, it is a question of the Way,” he heard her disembodied voice as he forced himself out of the vision to groggy wakefulness.

He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his chin in his hands. He swallowed hard and tried to mutter himself fully awake. “It mustn’t happen,” he repeated several times, all the while recalling other visions that had proven true. “She’s going to be okay. This is a warning, so that it can be prevented. They’ll find out who’s working against her and.…” He could not move beyond the vision to imagine what would be the lot of the conspirators.

A discreet knock on the door announced Priest Andres Viernes. “Cardinal?” he called softly. “Are you awake?”

“Near enough,” said Cardinal Mendosa, making his tone level. It would not do to have his own staff questioning his state of mind the way half the Catholics in Houston did. He rose and stretched, then crossed himself and began his morning prayers. The words made little sense to him, but he recited them dutifully, unwilling to give up the patterns he had come to know so well. Often in the past these rituals had offered him comfort in their familiarity, but today all they seemed to be was jingles, little catch phrases that might be more at home in advertising than in spiritual exercise.

Priest Viernes entered the room just as Cardinal Mendosa finished up his prayers. He regarded his superior with speculation. “Did you sleep well?”

“Not especially,” he answered. “And considering what the news has been like from America, it isn’t surprising I didn’t.”

“Yes,” said Priest Viernes. “I have the most recent developments on the computer if you want to review them. The reports are current to the last hour. Boston is the hardest hit. Cardinal Bradeston has already left for there. Cardinal Durand is scheduled to depart in the next two hours for Baltimore.” He had a small cup of coffee which he held out to Cardinal Mendosa. “President Carey telephoned three hours ago. He would like you to return his call, but not before six-thirty Washington time.”

“I sure as hell wouldn’t want his job right now,” Cardinal Mendosa observed as he stretched. “Mine’s hard enough, but his is a bitch.”

“He wants you to have a statement ready, one that he can use when he goes for his press conference this evening.” Priest Viernes reported this flatly in order to conceal his own intense curiosity.

“Good enough,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “How bad is the damage in Boston, do you know?”

“Pretty extensive. Two of the Fundamentalist groups got into a pitched battle about the Second Coming, the Mormon Service Center was trashed by some of them—reports are there were about five thousand or more—Reverend Williamson’s people—and a group of three or four thousand Catholics were caught in the middle of it.” He stared down at the floor. “Several thousand injured.”

Cardinal Mendosa nodded. “And killed?”

“Between two and three hundred, according to the police.” Priest Viernes crossed himself and regarded Cardinal Mendosa sideways. “What do you think?”

“I think there are some people out there somewhere who are profiting from this, and it makes me sick.” He rubbed his chin. “Where’s the Pope, do you know?”

“It’s simple enough to find out,” said Priest Viernes, unwilling to admit he did not have that information.

“Then do it,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “And while you’re at it, get hold of Cadini and van Hooven for me, will you? Tell them it’s urgent.”

“Cadini and van Hooven,” repeated Priest Viernes. “All right.”

“I’m going to shower and shave. I’ll want a couple croissants and some fruit for breakfast, and more coffee.” He smoothed the front of his nightshirt. “Let Peverston and Gilbert know that I’ll want to talk to all three of you at two this afternoon.”

Priest Viernes made a sign of compliance. “I don’t want to intrude, but you do have that address to the scholars from the U.S. to give. At the Vatican library. It’s part of the International Study Agreement.”

Cardinal Mendosa looked annoyed. “Right,” he said, nodding at the unwelcome recollection. “Right. What time is that?”

“Two-thirty. There are seventy-eight of them, four from Texas.” He gave a sign of approval. “Bishop Peverston and Priest Gilbert can meet with you afterward.”

“Makes sense. Set it up. And thanks for reminding me about the talk.” He rubbed at his chin a second time. “I need to see my barber sometime in the next few days. Arrange it for me, if you please. I’m getting too shaggy, and that won’t do. We’ve got to keep up proper appearances.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Priest Viernes bowed slightly and turned toward the door. “If there is nothing else, I’ll send the order for breakfast.”

“Go ahead.” Cardinal Mendosa glanced toward the bathroom. “I’ll want to know about the Pope as soon as I’m dressed.”

“Of course,” said Priest Viernes, and left the Cardinal to his morning routine.

By the time Cardinal Mendosa emerged from his private quarters, neatened, shaved, his hair combed and his dark suit and deep burgundy tie in perfect order, his cowboy boots polished and buffed, his breakfast was waiting, along with print-outs from all the wire services available on his information computer network. While he nibbled at the croissants and grapes he had been brought, he read over the material, his frown deepening with each sentence.

“The Pope is in conference with a group of bishops from Africa. Willie Foot is with her, to translate. They are in the green conference room and are not to be disturbed.” Priest Viernes reported this as he poured Cardinal Mendosa another cup of coffee.

“Then we won’t disturb them,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he made his way through the report. “How did this Boston situation get so far out of hand?”

“There’s a large contingent of supporters of Reverend Williamson in Boston, and they’re becoming more restive. Reverend Williamson isn’t the most rabid of the extremists, but he does have the largest and most active following.” Priest Viernes sat down opposite the Cardinal. “In recent months, they’ve stepped up their activities, I think because they want to scoop up Catholics who are confused by what Pope An is doing and want a more—”

“Traditional?” suggested Cardinal Mendosa gently. “Repressive?”

Priest Viernes sighed. “You don’t need to argue with me, Cardinal. I might have doubted before, but I have come to think you are right.”

“Not I, Pope An.” He broke his second croissant in half and leaned back in his chair as he set the print-outs aside. “Have you spoken to Cadini and van Hooven?”

“Cadini yes, van Hooven, no.” Priest Viernes rubbed his hands together. “Cadini wants to talk with you as well.”

“We’ll do it right after Mass,” said Cardinal Mendosa, plucking off a bit of pastry. “Leave a message with one of van Hooven’s staff.”

“As you wish.”

“And put in a call to the Eurocops. Talk to Captain Christopher Hafen. I want to know about their most recent developments in regard to Cardinal Tayibha. It looks bad that we still don’t know who poisoned him. It would help if we could show progress on that investigation.” He had more of the croissant and finished his coffee. “I’ll return in time to telephone President Carey. If there are messages, arrange for them to be given to me then, and say I will return them at that time.” As he set his napkin aside and got to his feet, he permitted himself the luxury of a long sigh. “I have been thinking that if Christ were to return as an Israeli carpenter these days, especially given the state of affairs in Israel, He would not recognize the religion He founded, no matter in what form. Maybe the Copts would seem familiar, but all the rest of it.…” He tried to shake off the morose thought.

“The world has changed,” Priest Viernes offered.

Cardinal Mendosa managed a quick smile. “Yes, it has. And so, I suspect, has Christ.”

* * *

In silence Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung rose from the table and turned portentously away from the other men.

“Surely, Cardinal,” said Cardinal O’Higgins, “you cannot fix yourself in such strong opposition to the Pope.”

“What Pope? We have no Pope. We have a travesty!” Cardinal Jung’s round face was rosy, his eyes showing a sulphurous tinge. “How can any of you endorse the rule of this Chinese woman?”

“We have a Pope,” said Cardinal O’Higgins, his expression stern.

“And you are taking a risk, speaking out this way,” warned Cardinal Montebranco. “We have had trouble enough without direct and deliberate rebellion.”

“You do not support her,” Cardinal Jung accused. “Yet you acquiesce in her reign. How can you justify such hypocrisy, when you are committed to maintaining the Church as she has been maintained for century upon century?”

“We aren’t doing quite that,” said Cardinal Tondocello softly. “Or the rich would still ride horses into the churches and cathedrals.” No one could be certain whether he was making a joke or not, but few of them laughed.

Cardinal O’Higgins took up his point again. “We are the servants of the Church, and little though we may like it, we are her guardians. This woman is not just a woman. She is the head of this Church.”

“She has no business being that,” said Cardinal Jung emphatically. He smoothed his cassock and swung back around. “It is our disgrace that we permit her to bring shame on this great Church, to plunder her and expose her to the scrutiny of the world.”

Cardinal Sinclair, seated next to Cardinal Hetre, said, “It is a shame we brought on ourselves. There is no reason for us to compound it by disgracing our calling further.”

Cardinal Tondocello crossed himself. “I abhor the woman but I revere the position she holds. If she acts in ways I cannot approve, it is still acceptable as long as she wears the tiara.” His voice was thready, faint from illness that was once again taking hold of him.

“You speak as if she has authority,” said Cardinal Jung with disgust.

“But she has authority; she is Pope,” said Cardinal Bakony with less certainty than Cardinal O’Higgins had shown. “She was brought here to be Pope because we could not avoid her election. Have any of you forgotten what it was like, writing that name, in Chinese?”

Cardinal Montebranco crossed himself, saying with strong emotion, “I never want to experience such again.”

“That is making this Church a laughing-stock. No wonder there are riots everywhere, with this appalling creature making her calamitous decrees as if she had the right. We know how great her errors are, and we have not stopped her.” Cardinal Jung looked directly at Cardinal Hetre, who was staring at him with a great deal of interest. “Every one of you knows in your soul that this woman is a tragedy for the Church, that Catholics the world over are being betrayed by her pretense of reform which is nothing more than the obliteration of our Church.”

“She keeps within the teachings of Jesus,” said Cardinal Llanos, with clear disapproval. “Except when it suits her purposes.”

“Yes,” said Cardinal Jung. “Just so. The opening of the Vatican Library is one example of her caprice, but it is a minor thing compared to what she has done regarding marriage and the conduct of married people, to say nothing of her tolerance of those who have sinful sexual practices. Her encouragement of birth control devices and other methods of contraception is a flagrant disregard for everything the Church has stood for these two thousand years.” He paraded the length of the table, pleased that eight of his colleagues were forced to turn around in their chairs in order to look at him. “I say it is time to be rid of her. The world situation is precarious, and she might well prove sufficient to tip the balance from peace to war. We cannot tolerate that.”

“I thought she was against war,” said Cardinal O’Higgins. “Every statement she has made has been against conflict and the settlement of arguments by violence. Surely she would not change now.”

Cardinal Jung scoffed openly. “Oh, she says these things well enough. So does King Hassan, but he has tanks on all his borders and his armed jets fly over his neighbors daily. That maniac in Indonesia says he only wants peace, but he is preparing death squads to attack throughout the South Pacific. His peace is the same peace that this Chinese woman advocates. And it should not surprise you that she has taken such a stance. Communism may be uncertain in Europe, but it thrives in China, and it has ever been the sworn enemy of the Church. Yet here is the Chinese woman on the Throne of Saint Peter. She is from the People’s Republic, and that means she is still in the control of Premier Zuo, no matter what she has told us.”

“We don’t know that,” said Cardinal Tsukamara. “There has been no contact between them since she told us of her intention to break with Premier Zuo. Vatican Security has reported this to be true.” He folded his arms and watched Cardinal Jung.

“You can say that, for there has been only minor upheaval in Japan,” the Swiss remarked.

“Little you know,” countered Cardinal Tsukamara, anger in his eyes although his face was placid. “There have been riots in Tokyo and Kyoto. Two churches were burned in the last month. One Franciscan monastery was broken into and the place wrecked. There are Christians in Japan, too, Cardinal Jung, and they are as divided in their loyalties as the Christians of the Americas and Europe.”

“To say nothing of the Orthodox Christians,” added Cardinal Bakony. “You saw on the news what has been happening in Istanbul between Moslems and Greek Orthodox Christians. It isn’t only the political situation that brings the trouble about. It is more basic than that.”

“Yes. It is on account of this woman,” said Cardinal Jung, all but pouting. “You all are attempting to deny what is so obvious that you must wear blinders not to see it. You are ignoring the shame and disgrace brought upon us through her elevation and you are excusing the terrible consequences of having her wear the tiara as the result of social pressure and unrest.” He paced the other side of the table. “You cannot continue this way. You are party to the ruin of this Church and the hope of the world. You must face the facts. You have to acknowledge her position and her responsibilities, which you will not do.”

“She was validly elected,” said Cardinal Llanos, but without the kind of strong purpose that the others expected.

“She may have been elected, but it was not valid, not the first or the second time,” said Cardinal Jung in a tone that permitted no cavil.

“If you challenge this election, you challenge the election of all the Popes who have been elevated and all those who will be elevated,” said Cardinal O’Higgins. “If this election is declared invalid, no Pope may think his reign secure, and no Catholic can trust the Papacy. Prudence must guide us. Our position is very delicate. None of us can move without creating danger for the rest of us. Think of whomever succeeds her as Pope, if we disallow her election. He would be powerless. There are some of us who would prefer not to have the elections questioned. Better to endure this one woman than to endanger the whole procedure of election.”

“Yes,” said Cardinal Tsukamara thoughtfully. “The Japanese and the Chinese are not very good friends, but I will not dispute the Chinese woman her right to the throne. I don’t like it, but I will not be one to refuse her the right to her position.”

Cardinal Bakony sighed and shoved back from the table. “Cardinals, I know we have been over this before and nothing was decided. Each of us must defend the Papacy as well as the Pope. So I don’t see the point of all this. Do not be offended, Cardinal Jung,” he added when he saw the look in Cardinal Jung’s glittering eyes.

“How can I not?” answered Cardinal Jung, taking a deep breath in preparation for further harangue. “You suppose that the world applauds your caution, but that is not the case. You are fooling yourselves if you believe otherwise. Read the papers. Watch the news. Listen to what is being said by ordinary people. We are castigated everywhere for our lack of action. People expect us to bring this calamity to a halt. If we do not, in time that will cause us to be undermined. We must begin now to put distance between ourselves and that woman or the Church will suffer for it.”

Cardinal Hetre put one hand to his brow. His headache was not too adamant just now, and his own knowledge of his arrangements with Rufus Greene gave him a serenity that he would not otherwise achieve. “She is not to continue. It cannot be permitted for her to continue,” he declared.

“I’m sorry,” said Cardinal O’Higgins, ignoring Cardinal Hetre. “I don’t know about the rest, but I cannot do that, Cardinal Jung. I have vows to the Church and I intend to keep them.”

Cardinal Bakony nodded. “I must stand with you, Cardinal O’Higgins. I don’t want to bring any more upset on the Church, but I must abide by the rules she has made for herself. The Church is more important than any one of us, and that includes Pope An.”

Cardinal Llanos contemplated his folded hands. “I don’t trust this woman. Even if she were Catholic I would not trust her. But I will not act against her.”

“How magnanimous,” sneered Cardinal Jung. “Because you are ambitious you will not act for the benefit of the Church, so that if you are elected to succeed her, you will not be questioned.” His high color turned more intense. “You are despicable cowards, all of you.”

“We are true Churchmen,” said Cardinal Llanos. “I am not a coward, Cardinal Jung. I have stood against armed men and been wounded. I have the scars to prove it. I have been confined to a stinking cell for three months, and I did not give in to the demands of my captors. So you may not tell me that I am a coward. God has given me all the strength I need for His battles. But I have no strength to fight this woman. God will not permit it.” He looked at the rest. “If that offends any of you, I ask your forgiveness, but I will not change my position.”

“I will agree with you,” said Cardinal Sinclair. He glanced at Cardinal Hetre. “You may agree with Cardinal Jung, but you will not find me an ally. Not now. After Cardinal Gemme’s…misfortune, I will not oppose Pope An actively again. I may disapprove of what she does, but I will not stand against her.”

“That is an act of folly,” said Cardinal Jung with contempt.

Cardinal Tsukamara regarded Cardinal Jung steadily. “What you are doing is an act of folly. You put every one of us at risk by speaking to us this way. And we are in error to listen to you.”

“You are a traitor to the Church if you permit this woman to continue to destroy her.” Cardinal Jung took a stance, his feet spread beneath his cassock, his hands clasped behind him.

“Possibly,” said Cardinal Sinclair. “But if the Holy Spirit wanted the woman done away with, she would be dead long since. There have been efforts to be rid of her, and doubtless there will be more. Yet she is alive. Because she still lives, I must assume that her actions are the will of God. It is not my place to question the will of God.”

“And if it is not the will of God?” Cardinal Jung demanded. “What if we are all victims of a clever ruse? Have you forgot our concerns that we were influenced by forces other than the Holy Spirit? What if it can be shown that her presence is part of a conspiracy?”

“When that happens,” said Cardinal Sinclair rising from the table, “I will reconsider my position. But as long as she appears to hold the favor of the Holy Spirit, I will do nothing to impede her work. I will not support her, but I will not oppose her.” He started toward the door.

“Suppose this is a test of faith, to determine how genuine our belief is?” Cardinal Jung insisted. “Couldn’t it be that this woman is the emissary of the Devil, the handmaiden of the Antichrist? God would expect us to recognize her for what she is, but He would not compel us, so that it would be our faith that triumphed.”

“I, too, have read Job, and not one of us wishes to curse God,” Cardinal Sinclair said. “This is not wise, Cardinals. You would be well-advised to leave. As I am going to do.”

Cardinal Montebranco nodded heavily. “You may be certain that one of us at least will be speaking with Dionigi Stelo about this meeting, and there will be a record of who was here and what was said. I will not be the one to inform, but I am certain that some of you will have to ease your conscience with treachery of one kind or another. Informing Vatican Security would seem the lesser treason.”

Cardinal Bakony called out to Cardinal Sinclair as the Irishman reached the door, “Wait a moment. I’ll join you.”

As the Irish and Hungarian Cardinals departed, Cardinal Jung glared at the rest. “Are you all cowards, or will some of you stand with me?”

Cardinal Hetre wanted to talk with Cardinal Jung, to tell him of the plans he had assisted in establishing. But he had been sworn to secrecy by Rufus Greene, and he suspected that Cardinal Jung would not approve of dealing with men associated with Protestant ministers, no matter how sympathetic they were to the dilemma of the Cardinals. He faltered, then said, “If God brought her here, He will find the instrument to end her reign.”

“You assume a great deal,” said Cardinal Jung, glowering as Cardinal Llanos left the room.

“It is the nature of faith, isn’t it?” said Cardinal Hetre. “We must assume that God exists and is concerned in our welfare. If we are willing to accept that, then we must suppose that He will not desert us, or leave the Church to flounder.”

“Strange sentiments coming from you,” said Cardinal Jung, his attitude less formidable than a moment before.

“Oh, hardly that,” said Cardinal Hetre, excited by the prospect of being part of the end of the reign of Pope An. He started toward the door but looked back at the fulminating Cardinal Jung. “There is no reason for anyone to do anything rash. I am convinced of that.” For the first time in months he felt a surge of euphoria that was as intense as it was brief. “Doubtless events are in motion that will settle the matter once and for all.”

Cardinal Jung was too caught up in his own angry thoughts to pay much attention to what Cardinal Hetre said. “Believe that if you like,” he said.

“With all my soul,” said Cardinal Hetre, unaware of how smug he sounded.

* * *

In the shadow of the Castel’ Sant’ Angelo Martin Bell waited, his arms crossed, his head lowered in thought. He had spent part of the afternoon with Cardinal Cadini in the Vatican Library examining the fragile, crumbling copies of the Acta Dinura, the newspaper of Imperial Rome. There were no more than a dozen of the precious documents left, but what they imparted was astonishing and enthralling. As a scholar he had been engrossed in the blatantly yellow journalism features in the ancient pages, but as a man with orders to follow, he had been distracted with what he had been told to pass on to Cardinal Mendosa. Now that he was waiting for the Texan, he wished he had spent more time with the two-thousand-year-old documents and left the messages for another time.

A very pretty woman in a fashionable silk ensemble walked by, and Martin Bell watched her with a distant appreciation. He liked what he saw and at another time might have tried to strike up a conversation with her. Now all he did was notice the fine curve of her thigh under the bronze-colored silk of her full trousers, and the ample curve of her breast where the deep neckline revealed it; a number of delicate gold chains draped with the cloth emphasizing the décolletage.

“Window-shopping?” asked Cardinal Mendosa from a few steps behind him. He was in his usual dark business suit and conservative burgundy tie, but he had left off his lapel pins. His cowboy boots were glossy with polish.

“Something very like,” said Bell, turning to face the new arrival. “Worth a second look, wouldn’t you say?”

“And a third,” agreed Cardinal Mendosa. He held out his hand for form’s sake. “What was so urgent that you left a message for me with my staff?”

“Word from our…associate.” As always when he referred to Dmitri Karodin he seemed a bit awkward. “I didn’t expect it. But there was a call early this morning, from.…”

“The associate,” Cardinal Mendosa supplied. “Is something the matter?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Martin Bell, indicating the crowd. “What say we pick up a taxi and get away from here?”

“Any particular reason?” asked Cardinal Mendosa, marginally less cordial in his manner.

“I was faxed something from our associate. There are several pages. I think you’ll want to look at it someplace private.” Martin Bell patted his briefcase. “It’s not the sort of thing you’d want getting out.”

“Serious?” Cardinal Mendosa’s expression hardened. “Are you concerned?”

“I think it is serious,” said Bell carefully. “And I don’t think you want to be seen with the material, if you want to preserve your deniability.” He watched Cardinal Mendosa’s face. “Well?”

“Get a cab,” said Cardinal Mendosa in resignation. “You choose where we’re going.”

Martin Bell complied promptly, and his signal brought one of the new electric blue Peugeot-Ferrari cabs to the curb. He held the door for Cardinal Mendosa, then clambered in after him. “San Giovanni in Laterno,” he told the driver. “And do not rush.”

The cab driver gave a two-finger salute and charged into traffic.

“Surely you don’t mean to go to church?” said Cardinal Mendosa, a little taken aback at their destination.

“No. I have a friend who keeps a flat very near there. I have the use of it when she is away, as she is now. We can be private there.” He was also reasonably sure that no one had wired the place. “We can also use the telephone, if that’s necessary.”

“That wouldn’t be very wise, would it?” asked Cardinal Mendosa, who knew that many of the conversations with Russia were still monitored by Interpol and NSA and the Eurocops. “We have to keep our asses covered.”

“There’s a number in Austria we’re to use if we require it. No one pays that much attention to Austria, or so I hope.” He said this with forced laughter, in case the driver was listening. “The Austrians are the least of our concern.”

“I should think so,” said Cardinal Mendosa, more puzzled than before.

They went some distance in silence. When traffic was diverted near San Andrea della Valle, Eurocops manning barriers and shunting cars away from the Piazza Venezia, Martin Bell asked, “What’s going on? Do you know why this detour is—”

“A protest,” said the cab driver laconically. “Starting at the Gesu and going to the Vatican. They’re protesting the ruling on divorce.”

“Why on earth?” Cardinal Mendosa inquired, doing his best to sound mildly curious and little more.

“Who knows?” the driver asked with a breezy motion of one hand. “Maybe they think everyone should be miserable. Maybe they don’t think divorce is fair. Maybe they don’t like the law being changed. Maybe they want to speak out against a woman. Or men. They’re crazy.” He continued slowly through the side-streets, heading toward the Teatro Marcello.

“How much time can you spare me?” asked Bell as he realized that this trip was going to be longer than he had first supposed.

“I have almost three hours before my next appointment.” Cardinal Mendosa looked out the window, his eyes narrowing. “How many demonstrations does this make this month?”

“I don’t know,” said Martin Bell. “A dozen or so.”

“Fifteen,” said the cab driver. “One almost every other day.” He shook his head. “They say that there is going to be a big demonstration at Christmas this year. I forget who is doing it, or why.”

“Let’s hope that the participants have a better sense of their duty,” said Cardinal Mendosa sharply. He realized that he had been expecting some extensive demonstration at the end of the year. 1999 would become 2000, and although the millennium was still a year away, he knew that the world would accept the three zeros as the beginning of the Third Millennium rather than end of the Second.

The cab driver chuckled and began to hum bits and pieces of Sergio Drivas’ latest hit, Nunca Sorrisa.

“When you go back, suggest that the driver cross the river and come up the west bank,” Martin Bell recommended as the cab continued its slow progress toward the southeast.

“Sounds like a good idea,” said Cardinal Mendosa. He pushed back in the seat and let his mind wander for several minutes. Then he turned to Martin Bell. “I don’t know what to think. Our associate.…”

“So far he has been willing to observe.” Martin Bell contemplated his briefcase as if it were an unknown object.

“But recently.” Cardinal Mendosa shook his head. “He was here not long ago, did you know?”

Bell looked surprised. “No.”

“Willie’s lady saw him at a function. He was among the guests.” He was convinced that the driver was listening, and that made him more cautious than ever. “He spoke with her.”

“I see,” said Bell, having no idea what he meant.

The driver dropped them across the street from San Giovanni in Laterno, accepted his fare and a generous tip, then rushed away, back toward the center of Rome.

Martin Bell led the way for two blocks, then unlocked the carved wooden door fronting one of the anonymous stone buildings. They went through a short passage into a pleasant courtyard where flowers bloomed in tremendous pots. There was a subtle air of quiet elegance in the beautiful inner garden, and as Bell crossed the mosaic tiles, he said, “You wouldn’t expect this from the outside, but it’s quite luxurious here.”

Cardinal Mendosa knew that Rome had greater secrets than this, and shrugged. “How fortunate for your friend.”

“She enjoys her quiet,” Martin Bell assured him, as they went through one of the doors to climb up a wide marble staircase two stories. On the landing, Bell took out the key and opened the door, standing aside so that Cardinal Mendosa could enter the flat first.

“Very nice,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he looked at the splendid furnishings; they were an unlikely but successful blend of oriental and Roman baroque.

Martin Bell shut the door and came after Cardinal Mendosa. “Take a seat, why don’t you?”

“All right,” said the Cardinal, choosing a long sofa covered in damask tawny silk. He watched Bell as the man paced the length of the fine Persian carpet. “You might as well give me the documents.”

“Yes. Yes.” Bell stopped and opened his briefcase. “I don’t know how to deal with this. I feel out of my depth.”

“So do I,” Cardinal Mendosa admitted. He leaned forward, hands loosely joined, while Bell drew out the pages and gave them to him.

“I’ve read them. You have my word that I will say nothing.” He looked suddenly guilty and miserable. “If I went against my word, Karodin would make life very difficult for me. You can…trust me.”

“Meaning I can trust Karodin,” said Cardinal Mendosa, his eyes fixed on the information on the first sheet. “Sweet Jesus and Mary,” he murmured as he read. “Is he sure of this?”

“Absolutely. He said his man in the Vatican—and I have no idea who that man is—has the proof ready. It’s specified on the next page.”

Cardinal Mendosa read the material again. “We investigated this man. He was one of the first. Dionigi Stelo gave him a clean bill of health. He said there was no way he could have administered the poison.”

“Dionigi Stelo does not know everything,” said Martin Bell sharply. “And Karodin is aware of it. Ask Cardinal Pugno.”

Cardinal Mendosa glanced up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know. It was part of the message.” Martin Bell sat down on one of three elegant baroque chairs. The upholstery was a darker version of that of the sofa. “I believe what Karodin says.”

“But to claim that Carlo Urbi was behind the poisoning, and that he intended to kill Zhuang.…” Cardinal Mendosa gave a single, exasperated sigh. “The man is head of catering. He’s so obvious that we vetted him first.”

“Dionigi Stelo vetted him. You didn’t have Interpol and the Eurocops in at the beginning of the investigation.” Martin Bell set his briefcase on the floor beside his chair. “Everyone took Stelo’s word for it.”

There was a canny look in Cardinal Mendosa’s brown eyes. “You’re making it sound like Stelo was part of the plot.”

“According to the report, it was more a question of the good-old-boy network. Stelo hired Urbi, and he’s the one who’s been giving him clearance. If Urbi is tainted, then Stelo could be tainted, too. He didn’t want to think that someone connected with his staff could possibly be part of a conspiracy. Which Urbi was and is. You can see that he has been true to the cause ever since Pope An was elevated. The only reason he hasn’t done more is that he would make himself obvious if there were another poisoning. Karodin’s man in the Vatican—”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” complained Cardinal Mendosa.

“I can understand why,” said Martin Bell, running his tongue over his suddenly dry lips. “But whoever he is, he is Karodin’s man, and he will do whatever Karodin requires of him.”

“Marvelous,” said Cardinal Mendosa with heavy sarcasm. He looked at the next page, at the proof of Carlo Urbi’s participation in the death of Cardinal Tayibha, and proof that the conspiracy was still in place to bring about the death of Pope An.

“Do you want to talk with Karodin?” asked Martin Bell.

“No. Not yet. I think I’d better have a word or two with Cardinal Pugno. I’ll find out what that’s all about. After that, maybe I ought to delve a little further into this mess. Something has to be done about Urbi, but with as little fanfare as possible. A major trial right now would be more than the Church could weather. And who knows? it might give other people ideas. Whatever comes of this situation, I’ll include it in my next report to Karodin.” He flipped to the next page his face growing grim. “Three conspiracies, and I knew of only one of them.” He tapped the faxes against the palm of his hand. “All right. I’m going to need everything you can provide me on how Karodin’s man put this case together, and then I want permission to turn it over to the Eurocops. This is too hot to keep to myself.”

Now Martin Bell looked worried. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

“Positive,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “I can’t be responsible for Pope An’s security myself, and since I can’t, I must give everything I know to those who can. And right now I don’t much care where the information is coming from, just so long as it can hold up to forensic scrutiny.”

“You see the proof on the second page,” Martin Bell reminded him. “That should stand up well enough.”

“I sure as hell hope so,” said Cardinal Mendosa, feeling exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. “And I hope we won’t have to demand that Karodin reveal the name of his man in the Vatican; I have a hunch that would make things rough on all of us.” He riffled the five pages again. “I’ve been praying for some kind of break for months. And now I’ve got it, I wish I didn’t have to know what I know.”

“You can do something to help her,” said Martin Bell. “Doesn’t that help?”

It took Cardinal Mendosa a few seconds to answer. “Yeah. If it’s enough, then I suppose it does.”

Chapter 30

From her position on the balcony overlooking Saint Peter’s Square, Pope An watched the assembled crowd with a combination of awe and distress. “Why should it matter so much to them?” she wondered aloud. “A few words will not make any difference to them, not as they suppose.” She was rigged out in Papal finery, the jeweled tiara glistening where the light struck it.

“It’s important to them because of continuity,” said Cardinal Mendosa, his manner a bit distracted; he had a fourth appointment with Axel Maetrich later that evening and he was growing apprehensive about it.

“That is understandable,” said Pope An, her eyes weary on this late December afternoon. “But why should it be so simple a thing? A ritual whose meaning is hardly understood? If there were purpose to this.…” She held up her hand to stop Cardinal Mendosa from explaining. “If I were born to it, I am sure it would have purpose for me. I accept that. As one who comes to this late and without apparent determination, I can only ponder the traditions you have.”

“Do you feel the same way about the wedding you are to celebrate at midnight?” asked Cardinal Mendosa, trying to be more light-hearted than he felt.

“Not at all, although it is lamentable that there had to be so much scandal associated with the event. I believe that Dame Leonie’s former husband has made it his business to turn the entire proceeding into suffering for her. That is not a correct thing to do.”

“No, it’s not.” Cardinal Mendosa stepped back, feeling peculiar in his full Cardinal’s regalia; he had grown used to the more practical, worldly garments Pope An preferred.

Pope An signaled to Cardinal Cadini, who stood near her. “Cadini, I want you to speak with the press afterward, if that is required.”

“They’ll be expecting it, and if we don’t, heaven knows what they’ll make of it. Of course I’ll do it, Pope,” he said promptly, his smile showing true enthusiasm. “It is always invigorating to speak to the press when you have finished with them.” He gave a covert thumbs-up to Cardinal Mendosa.

“Are you ready, Worthy Magistrate?” Cardinal Mendosa asked as he checked his watch, relying on it instead of the sound of bells. “It’s time.”

“I’m ready,” she said, and moved a step toward the railing, holding her hands up, the palms turned outward. She went to the microphone, knowing that Willie Foot would translate for her on his own headset. For convenience, she spoke in Chinese, confident that Willie would serve her interests very well. “To all of you—those of you in the square beneath this balcony and those of you throughout the world who are part of this Church—the blessings of this season be on you and all of yours at the Mass of Christ.”

There was a cheer, not so enthusiastic as some had been but not as derisive as others. Pope An waited as the noise rose and fell.

“To mark this time, I wish to comment to you on sin, for at this time of year each of you wishes to be reborn from what you believe is the burden of sin.” She paused again as the crowd reacted to her announcement. “You are preoccupied with sin; I have been asked many questions about sin, and I have had no answer for you. Now I wish to speak of sin. For the last year I have striven to have the matter of sin explained to me, not as the word is used so often, but as it has meaning. From the scholarship of many others, I have found that sin is more a concept of the Greeks than the Jews, and that it indicates straying or wandering away from the path. It does not mean lost as forsaken, but lost as misdirected. Most of you have seen this as a lax morality instead of confusion. To lose the burden of sin it is necessary that you return to the path, to what Chinese people call the Way. Those who are on the Way are without sin. Those who are not on the way experience sin.” She halted so that Willie could catch up with her, and so that those listening to her could have a little time to digest her remarks. “Moral laxness is a separate issue entirely.”

“Very compelling,” said Cardinal Cadini softly to Cardinal Mendosa.

“The Fundamentalists are going to have a field day,” Cardinal Mendosa predicted. “Moral laxness and sin have been keeping company forever, according to them. This’ll put a twist in their shorts.”

“They will react unfavorably no matter what she says,” Cardinal Cadini whispered, and noticed that Cardinal Lepescu was glaring at them. Beyond Cardinal Lepescu, Cardinal van Hooven waited in thoughtful silence.

“This straying is not an act of rebellion or deliberate error, though many of you believe that it is. Rather it is the result of confusion and misunderstanding, of not recognizing the signposts of the Way, or mistakenly supposing that another’s way must be your own as well.” Pope An was more confident now, making her words ring as she spoke. “It is not for you to seek salvation, for there is nothing from which you need to be saved. You are not in need of rescuing: you are in need of an accurate map. You are not pawns of God, who must accept every whim of fate by guessing what is expected of you, and accepting with resignation and shame when you fail to guess correctly. Nor are you masters of the world, required to answer for all of it, and accountable for the acts of those around you. You are beholden to no one but through gratitude, and you are obliged to no one but through love. You are each seeking the Way, where you may walk in beauty, as Jesus told the Apostles they would so long as they were on the Way.”

The crowd was restless now, hearing her with a steady murmur of comment.

“I do not wish to tell you what you must do. It is not for me to find your Way.” Pope An smiled, her face luminous. “I urge you only to be aware that where you walk the Way there will be no blame. If you lose the Way, then you will be swayed by signposts that lie, and from such lies you will come to confusion, and blame will ensue.”

There were a few shouts from the crowd now, and the people listening were beginning to mill.

“I don’t like this,” said Dionigi Stelo to his assistant. They were near the entrance to the Square, discreetly surrounded by Vatican Security and Swiss Guard in anonymous grey uniforms instead of their Renaissance kits.

“Who does?” answered the Commendante of the Swiss Guard.

“No, I mean the way the crowd is behaving. I knew we required more protection than what we have.” Stelo lowered his head. “They’re expecting us to be especially vigilant. If this crowd gets out of hand later, or there is any vandalism, then—” The shame he felt marked his features. Ever since Carlo Urbi had been very privately arrested, Stelo had felt increasingly vulnerable. “We must take care that nothing happens to that woman, nothing.”

“We have our guards posted, and the Eurocops are lending us extra men,” said the Commendante. “If we did more, it would look very peculiar.”

Stelo shook his head. “Possibly.” He clapped his hands together. “Have you heard anything more about Urbi?”

“Nothing dependable,” answered the Commendante. “There are always rumors, but so far, nothing has come of them.”

“They say he won’t be tried, not in court. According to Cardinal Ochoa, he is to remain within the Vatican.” Stelo scowled.

“I’ve heard that,” said the Commendante.

“Do you suppose it’s true?” asked Stelo, but the Commendante had no answer for him. “They’re saying he could implicate others, much higher up. If that’s the case, no wonder they want to keep it private.”

“Let me remind every one of you that sin is not crime.” Pope An paused to allow this a little time to sink in. “Crime is a deliberate act against the laws of man, and it reflects a moral laxness more than sin does. What has become the burden of Christians everywhere is a confusion between the two. Sin is not deserving of punishment, but of understanding. Crime is deserving of punishment. It is from crimes that we seek pardon, not from sin, for the blame of sin is not the blame of the law.” She regarded the crowd. “That is not to say that sin cannot lead to crime, for we have seen this occur. Those who are on the Way do not commit crimes. Crime has no attraction for those who have the Way in their hearts. Those whose sin leads them to crimes may come to seek salvation, by which they wish to escape the consequences not of their sins but their crimes.”

Cardinal van Hooven smiled, his eyes huge behind his glasses.

“How are we to deal with this?” Dionigi Stelo asked the Commendante.

“As best we can,” said the Commendante, turning his eyes upwards in mock resignation. “It’s all of a piece with her.”

From the balcony, Pope An continued. “There are many references to the feet of those who follow the teachings of Jesus Christ being beautiful or blessed. That is because they were on the Way, and because of that they had no blame. Those who have found the Way have found beauty, and from that comes the truth you seek. If you see the beauty, you will always know the Way. Your steps will be light on the Way. You would call that state without blame that is on the Way as being in a state of Grace. It is achieved by the course you take, not by the words of priests or the morals you are taught, but by integrity of conduct and being on the Way. The Way is without pride, and without despair; the way is humble without humility and exalted without aggrandizement. The Way does not lead to a goal but is a goal in itself, and those who are upon it know this in their hearts. Therefore, as we come to the Mass of Christ, I tell you that you can go from this place without sin, not because of anything I say, or your priests say, but because you are no longer lost and have set yourselves on the Way.”

The crowd was making a great deal of noise now; a dozen Vatican Security men moved to tactical locations around Saint Peter’s Square.

“Set your feet on the Way, and leave your confusion behind. Follow the Way and you will have no occasion for blame.” Once again Pope An smiled and her black eyes shone. “As Jesus told the woman who was a prostitute, so I will say again to all of you: turn away from the confusion of the lost and resume your steps without blame on the Way.”

“The Fundamentalists are going to faint over this one,” said Cardinal Mendosa in an undervoice.

“To say nothing of our own conservatives,” added Cardinal Cadini. “Well, I suppose we’re going to have a lively press conference when this is over.”

Pope An made one last statement over the clash and clamor from the Square. “It is the task of the Church to help you find your Way. If the Church fails to do this, then it is to be blamed, for it is not on the Way itself. Walk your own Way, and you will find rest for your innermost selves.” With that she made the sign of blessing and stepped back.

“Lordy, Lordy, Pope,” said Cardinal Mendosa as Pope An signaled him to come to her side. “I think it’s wonderful, but you’ve gone and opened another can of worms for sure.”

“Can of worms?” she repeated.

“Created another tangled mess, bless your baby-browns,” said Cardinal Mendosa with affection. “Not that I mean you shouldn’t. Everything you said struck nerves, and that’s long overdue. I only mean that we’re going to hear a lot about what you just said. And for Christmas, too.”

“That is a strange assumption, but you know these things better than I do,” she said, watching the crowd below. “How long will it take them to clear the Square, do you think?”

“It depends on how everyone reacts. That includes Vatican Security and the Eurocops they have on loan. They could make it quite a job. If the crowd’s feeling belligerent, it might take quite a while. If you scared them, then they’ll probably wander around for a while before they go. If they want to get out of here, then cut the time in half.” He folded his arms. “What made you tackle sin?”

“So much of what everyone says starts with sin,” she said. “Most of the scholars in the Church are caught up with it. I don’t understand sin. If one is responsible for incorrect actions, then there is blame and guilt by reason of law. But that is not what most of the writers mean.” She frowned a little, and the lines that had begun to deepen in her face were sharply marked. “I wanted to know why they wrote such things. When I was told about the meaning of sin, at the first, then it was clear to me that I had a duty to clarify these meanings with the Catholics of the world.” She touched her tiara. “I hope I can remove this soon. It is very heavy and I don’t like it much.”

“Makes sense,” said Cardinal Mendosa, adding on another note, “When are we expected to gather for the wedding?”

“Half an hour before,” said Pope An. “It will be in the Cappella di San Michele, on the right side of the Papal altar.” She stared down into the Square. “Look at them, so bewildered and angry. Why is it that they become so upset? You would think that being released from the guilt they have been taught to dread would be welcome, and yet they are behaving as if they have been deprived of a treasured friend.”

“Some of them have,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “There are Catholics who embrace their guilt with such frenzy you would think it was a lover.” He looked around the balcony. “You can see it in the College of Cardinals as much as anywhere.”

“You are speaking of Cardinal Hetre?” she suggested.

“He’s one of the more obvious,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “But Cardinal Ochoa and Cardinal Dellegos and Cardinal Tondocello also have that in them—perhaps not to the degree that Cardinal Hetre does.” He had kept his voice low, but now he raised it. “I am very pleased that you have taken the time to define sin. That will change how many Catholics look upon their lives, with luck.”

“I hope so,” said Pope An. She noticed that she was being beckoned inside. “We had better let Vatican Security do their work.”

“Of course,” said Cardinal Mendosa, following her into the small reception room behind the balcony where the other Cardinals had gathered. He took advantage of their little privacy to add, “I hope this will get some of the clergy off your back, Worthy Magistrate, but I fear that there are some who will balk at what you’ve said.”

“Some have balked all along,” said Pope An philosophically. “It may be that their Way leads them to resist these changes.” She removed the tiara and carried it tucked under her arm, an action that earned her the condemning stares of five of the Cardinals gathered in the reception room. She paid no heed to them, but requested that Sister Euphemia be sent for to relieve her of the tiara, then looked at Cardinal Mendosa once more. “I did not understand, when you came to me in Hongya, how vast the work was that needed doing. You warned me, but I didn’t know why. Now I wish to thank you for the care you give me.”

“Well, I have a vested interest in you, Worthy Magistrate.” He was not embarrassed, but the friendship between them was colored for him now by what he had seen in his visions. “And I know you.”

“Yes. You found me and somehow arranged for me to come here. Knowing what I do now, I marvel at your accomplishment.” Her eyes met his. “And I am very pleased that you are my ally and not my enemy.”

Before Cardinal Mendosa could answer, Cardinal Shumwoe, his black face lost in the shadowed light of the chamber, approached Pope An. “A most remarkable lesson, Holiness.”

“That title is no longer appropriate,” Pope An reminded him politely. “Thank you for your observation. I am pleased you found my words of interest.”

“That I did,” said Cardinal Shumwoe, then added, “I was shocked to learn of Carlo Urbi’s place in the death of Cardinal Tayibha. I was informed only two days ago of the case brought against him.”

“Yes, it is very unfortunate,” said Pope An, showing a degree of anxiety in the way she stood. “Those who ordered him to act have yet to be apprehended, but I am told that it will occur. There are rumors that the act was ordered by powerful men. That always means delays in the work of the law. Where power is an issue it is senseless to rush these things. The circumstances demand thoroughness and caution. There can be no room for doubt with powerful men. When the conspirators are identified we will have many decisions to make.”

“Then I will thank God in my prayers for your protection and delivery.” He bowed to her, then moved away, leaving the opening clear for Cardinal Hauptberger to speak with her.

“You don’t need me at the moment, do you, Pope An?” asked Cardinal Mendosa.

“I am glad of your company, but no, I do not need you. In half an hour, I would like your escort to my quarters.” She offered him a formal bow and accepted his in return.

Cardinal Cadini was preparing to leave the reception room to deal with the newsmedia. “There are going to be many, many questions about her lesson,” he told Cardinal Mendosa as the Texan came up to him.

“Does that surprise you?” asked Cardinal Mendosa.

“Not in the least,” said Cardinal Cadini with relish. “I will enjoy this more than the conference on hunger in January. That will be nothing short of an ordeal, and well you know it.” He indicated the scarlet piping on his black satin cassock. “But it goes with the office, doesn’t it?”

“As long as she says it does,” said Cardinal Mendosa, and changed the subject. “You’ll be at the wedding?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Willie and Dame Leonie, at last. Only is she still Dame Leonie now that Sir Arthur has disowned her? He did much more than divorce her.” Cardinal Cadini was beginning to fidget, afraid of arriving late to deal with the press.

“Yes. She was given the title on her own merit, for her service to the Crown. She continues as Dame Leonie, no matter what Sir Arthur has done.” He indicated the door. “Go on. The lions are waiting.”

“And I’m such a nice, plump Christian to feed them,” said Cardinal Cadini before he hurried on his way.

Several minutes later Willie Foot found Cardinal Mendosa lingering by the tall bookshelves, giving every indication that he did not wish to be disturbed. “Hope I’m not intruding?” he said as he came up to his friend.

“Other people might be, but never you,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “I’ve been trying to avoid getting dragged into an argument with Cardinal Tsukamara. He is worried about crossing Christian dogma with Taoism.”

“Is that what he thinks Pope An did?” asked Willie. He was a trifle pale but otherwise his composure was complete.

“He wants to make a case for it, not without cause,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “But frankly, I don’t give a damn one way or another.” He made a gesture of shoving the whole thing away. “You don’t want to hear about theology. Except as it pertains to weddings.”

“A divorced woman, not a Catholic, marrying a lapsed Catholic, that’s remarkable enough, but the marriage is being performed at the Vatican by the Pope with a handful of priests to back her up. Now that’s significant.” Willie achieved a lopsided grin.

“Which she intends it to be,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “It’s called sending a message, I think.”

“Well, it’s pretty amazing for us.” He looked down at his hands, holding them out at waist height. “They’re still steady. You certain you want to be best man for this thing, Charles?”

“Would you rather I wasn’t?” asked Cardinal Mendosa. There was no trace on rancor in his tone.

“I don’t know anyone else I’d rather have stand up with me, and that’s God’s own truth,” said Willie with feeling. “But it’s going to get a lot of publicity. It isn’t just that the Pope is doing it, or that Leonie and I have…have made names for ourselves. You know how much controversy there is in the Church about divorce. It’s going to come to a head over this, you watch.”

“I have a hunch that’s what Zhuang is hoping for. She wants it understood once and for all that she means it about divorce, and what better way than to perform this wedding?” Cardinal Mendosa shrugged. “While I think that shows good sense, I’m a little sorry I wasn’t given the job. I was looking forward to pronouncing you two hitched.”

“Hitched. How very Texan of you,” said Willie with a quick smile.

* * *

Reverend Williamson was mobbed in Atlanta. His limousine was turned over and the clothes torn off his back as souvenirs, the frenzy of his audience more like that of a rock star’s than a preacher’s.

He sat in his hotel suite, letting one of the women who traveled with him and his crew tend to the small cuts on his hands and face. He had a glass of whiskey in one hand and fondled the woman’s breast with the other. “You keep that up, Sarah. You just keep doing what you’re doing,” he said, not bothering to look at Rufus Greene, who sat opposite him, his expression carefully neutral.

“I thought you wanted to discuss matters in private.” Greene could not keep the note of reproach from his voice.

“Disapprove, do you?” asked Williamson, grinning lazily. “Don’t you know that those God favors enjoy good things? Look at David.” He waved Sarah away. “You go and set things out for my bath. You can do my back. Maybe you can do other parts, too.” He slapped her on the rump.

“I think you’re taking a risk,” said Greene. “At a time like this, you can’t afford any publicity that—”

“Tarnishes my image?” Reverend Williamson asked. He drank the last of his whiskey and set the glass aside. “Greene, I’d bet you that I could have an orgy in the middle of Peachtree Stadium and no one would believe it. I’m set in their minds, don’t you see? as someone who’s above all that.” He chuckled and there was more anger than mirth in the sound. “They want their preacher to be perfect, and that’s what they see. That’s what they want to see.”

“It could blow up in your face,” said Greene. “Don’t forget the Bakkers.”

“They were stupid. They started showing off. They had all that property and the frills. That’s what people got mad at, the frills. I haven’t done any of the things that make my people annoyed, not that they can see.” He put his hand to his forehead. “They’re free to assume the worst. I tell ‘em that every time. ‘Good Christians, you owe it to yourselves to guard your faith against those who would corrupt it and abuse your trust. So I beg you to guard yourselves. Do not permit anyone, not even me, to taint your faith. Be critical of what I do, of what all ministers of the Gospel do, and you will be certain that your devotion is not perverted or compromised.’ You’ve heard all that shit. I encourage them to believe bad things about me, because nothing stops them believing those things faster than me telling ‘em it’s okay.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Greene. He patted the large briefcase he brought with him. “I got some plans out of Hetre. He’s very jumpy; I think you ought to be aware that we can’t push him too hard. You have to be careful with men like Hetre. Clancy doesn’t like dealing with him at all. He thinks Hetre is close to a breakdown, and I think he could be right. Hetre has psychosomatic headaches and they’re getting worse.”

Reverend Williamson raised his eyebrows. “What are you trying to tell me? Just spit it out.”

“I think we have to act soon. If we don’t, I can’t be responsible for anything Hetre could do.” He opened the briefcase. “You’ve seen the profile on the man. He’s coming unglued.”

“Well, stick him back together again,” said Reverend Williamson, his tone making it clear that he would accept no failure.

“I don’t know if we can do that. He’s…a very complicated person.” He looked at Reverend Williamson in the same level way he looked at Clancy McEllton. “I don’t know if he can stand to be pushed any further than he’s been pushed already.”

“All right; tell me why,” said Reverend Williamson.

Greene bit his lower lip before answering. “Up until the last three or four months, he’s been full of gloom and guilt. He behaved as if God played a very nasty trick on the Church, and that God was directing His disapproval directly at Hetre. Now he’s having occasional moments of euphoria, not the kind that comes with relief, but the kind that.… He’s been talking to me—God only knows why—and I don’t like what I’m hearing.” He faltered, searching for an accurate explanation. “Now that they’ve arrested the head of catering, a man named Carlo Urbi, for poisoning the Indian Cardinal, Cardinal Hetre is starting to behave as if we can’t make mistakes. He’s proud of what we’re going to do. That’s fine, in theory, but it’s making him…reckless. He’s decided that because this is the right thing to do, we can’t be touched.”

“How much attention do people pay to him?” asked Reverend Williamson.

“I don’t know. I haven’t been inside the Vatican, and Hetre is the only one of the College of Cardinals I’ve had any real dealings with. We’ve tried for some of the others—I told you about that—but they’re being careful. If Hetre keeps on the way he’s going, so pleased with himself, he could wreck everything.” Greene waited for Reverend Williamson to react, continuing when the minister said nothing, “What do you want me to do?”

Williamson got up abruptly and picked up his glass. “You want some?” he offered as he refilled it from the well-stocked bar provided with the suite.

“Not really,” said Greene. “I have to fly this evening, and I need a clear head.”

“You’re not the pilot,” Williamson reminded him with a deprecatory smile. “There’s some good sour mash here.”

“No, thanks,” said Greene, more forcefully. “I want to do whatever you decide is necessary.”

“You mean we might have to do something about Hetre? Is that what you’re telling me?” Williamson poured himself a generous three fingers and added a splash of water. “If that’s what McEllton advises, he’s the pro. You do whatever he recommends. If he wants to put the Cardinal out of the picture, that’s fine. If he thinks it’s safer keeping him around, then keep him around. I don’t want to have to know much about this.”

“But if it comes back to you—” Rufus Greene began.

“I want to be able to say that I don’t know a fucking thing about it,” said Williamson in sudden fury. “You’re making it hard for me to do that.”

Greene studied the grain of the leather on his briefcase. “Sorry.”

“I should damn well hope so.” Williamson took his glass and went back to his chair. “It’s one thing when I rake the Catholics over the coals. Everyone expects that. But they won’t stand for me having a part in a conspiracy. I’m supposed to be above all that, too. They expect me to limit my assassination to characters and to leave the real world killings to others. I’m not supposed to have any knowledge about what you and McEllton are up to, let alone Cardinal Hetre.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Greene, his very neutral manner for once proving irritating to Reverend Williamson, who turned on him.

“Will you stop that mealy-mouthed crap!” He tossed off half his drink. “Can’t you say things straight out? You’re not a robot. I don’t want to get shafted because you don’t like direct discussion.”

“I hadn’t realized this was a discussion. I assumed it was a report and you were giving orders.” It was the closest to impertinence that Rufus Greene had ever come. “If I’m mistaken?”

“You bastard,” said Reverend Williamson. Then he relented. “If it’s orders you want, I’ll give you some. You pay attention to what McEllton advises. Inform me if he decides to do something about Hetre. Otherwise, you keep things going the way they’ve been going.”

“And what about this Urbi matter? How do you want me to handle that issue?” Greene’s manner was once again meticulous, his demeanor that of a perfect butler.

“Do we have to handle it? It doesn’t have anything to do with us,” said Reverend Williamson. “Don’t keep borrowing trouble, Greene.”

“I’m sorry, Reverend Williamson, but I don’t think that I am borrowing trouble,” he said, his attitude slipping again. “We are undertaking a very risky business, and it would be sensible for us to anticipate anything that could cause us difficulties later on. From what Hetre has said there have been changes in Vatican Security because of the arrest of Urbi, and that may well have bearing on what we do eventually, and how.”

Reverend Williamson waved this away. “All right, you’ve made your point. If they make the Urbi thing public, I’ll make sure I denounce the whole case, and then announce my sympathy with Urbi. How’s that?”

“It might be dangerous. There are some suggestions that Urbi has connections to…Sicilian organizations.” Greene caught Reverend Williamson’s eye. “If I may make a suggestion? Denounce the case if you like, but be careful about Urbi. If he’s acting on Family instructions.…”

“Say, I never thought of that angle,” said Williamson with a burst of interest. “The Catholic Church as a tool of the Mafia. I thought that was only in movies. But I suppose you’re right.”

“Be careful how you approach that,” Greene warned him. “You don’t want to make enemies in that circle.”

“They don’t give a shit about preachers like me,” said Williamson, draining his glass. “But I won’t mention them, not yet.”

“I think that’s wise,” said Greene, feeling apprehensive as he watched Reverend Williamson, for he could see the glitter of his eyes that was not entirely the product of whiskey. “You’ve been able to make spectacular progress,” he went on, in the vain hope that he could convince Reverend Williamson to abandon any intention of including the Mafia in his denunciation of the Catholic Church. “It would be unfortunate if you became a thorn in the side of the Mafia. Unlike the Church, that organization does not hesitate to take extreme measures.”

“You don’t think they’d kill me, do you?” Reverend Williamson laughed once. “Come on, Greene.”

“I think they would find out everything they can about you and spread it across the tabloids from here to Bombay,” said Greene with asperity, nodding in the direction of the suite’s bedroom. “And I think they could make it stick.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Reverend Williamson.

“We’re so close, so close,” said Rufus Greene, more to himself than to Williamson. He could sense their victory being plucked away just as it came within reach.

“We’ll get there, don’t worry,” said Reverend Williamson, his fingers straying to the bandage on his shoulder where one of his over-zealous followers had scraped him with long nails. “But I’ll keep what you’ve said in mind.”

“I’d appreciate it,” said Greene, with the sinking conviction that the Reverend’s assurances meant less than the vows of a bought politician running for office.

* * *

Midnight had come and gone; the year 2000 had arrived and beyond the walls of the Vatican fireworks and merry-making continued at a frenzied pitch. Inside the headquarters of Vatican Security, Dionigi Stelo and two of his assistants and the Commendante of the Swiss Guard sat with Interpol Inspector Cervi and EECPA Captain Christopher Hafen. Across the table from them, Carlo Urbi waited passively for the next question.

“You have admitted that you were not working alone,” Captain Hafen said pointedly.

“Several times,” said Urbi. His voice more than his attitude was exhausted. “I would not have been able to achieve…what I did if I had no help.”

“But you are not willing to reveal who helped you,” said Stelo, a touch of desperation in his eyes.

“No, I am not.” Urbi patted his pockets, searching for cigarettes.

“Omerta,” said Ludovico Raccolto, the Commendante of the Swiss Guard. He showed his disgust in a single, swift gesture. “Damned Sicilians.”

“Your code of honor may demand silence, but our code of honor demands that we break your silence,” said Inspector Cervi with candor. “Thus far we have been as reasonable as we can be. But we cannot afford to continue in this manner. We have asked for permission to examine you under the influence of La Verita.” The nickname for the powerful drug that served as a truth serum commanded Urbi’s immediate attention.

“Any information you gain will not be acceptable in court,” he said. He was starting to sweat.

“We are not preparing to bring you to trial. With the consent of the Eurocops and Interpol we are treating this as an act of terrorism, and as such, we are permitted to administer La Verita. Any attack on a figure such as Pope An can be regarded as terrorism, for the Pope is the head of the Vatican state, you will recall. Your statement under its influence will not be introduced in the trial of anyone you have worked with; the law is very specific about that. However, anything and everything you say will be entered in the records on terrorists that are kept in The Hague. Had you been more cooperative, it might be otherwise. Since you persist in your silence, we have no choice if we are to protect Pope An. We are invoking the terrorist exceptions on the basis that you conspired against the official, recognized leader of a country.” Captain Hafen said this evenly, and he watched Urbi with a studied disinterest. “Tomorrow afternoon. If you want to make Confession before then, we will arrange it. You may even select the priest to hear it. If you decide to change your mind before then, and volunteer testimony, it will not be necessary to use La Verita.”

It was all Urbi could do to maintain his composure. “I want to see an attorney.”

Dionigi Stelo shook his head. “Cardinal Pugno has said he will serve as your advocate, if that is what you wish. But within the Vatican you must accept whichever of the lawyers is willing to act for you.”

“Not Pugno, no,” said Urbi, his tension raising the pitch of his voice. “The man’s from Udine, for God’s sake.”

“Northerner or not, Pugno has offered.” Ludovico Raccolto said bluntly. “If there are others you would prefer, tell us.”

Urbi hesitated, his fingers tapping nervously. “Does Cardinal Tondocello know where I am?”

“The Cardinal for Palermo knows as much as the other Cardinals do,” said Dionigi Stelo. “Is there some reason why you wish him to be informed above all others? You are from Sicily—have you some connection to the Cardinal?”

“We should know about that if you do,” added Captain Hafen.

“N…no.” said Carlo Urbi, staring away from the men who watched him so closely. “Don’t bother.”

“We won’t. For the time being.” Captain Hafen made a sign to the others to keep quiet, letting the silence stretch out for more than three minutes. He had known other men to give way under such silence.

Carlo Urbi grew noticeably more nervous, and finally he started to slap his palms on the table. He would not look at the men seated across from him, but his efforts to avoid them became more labored. “I want it on record, I object to this entire proceeding. This is against the Revised Code of five years ago. That guarantees me an advocate at all questioning. You have no right to keep me here.”

“We have every right,” said Raccolto. “You committed a crime here. The Vatican is not signatory to the European Revised Legal Code, so the provision for an advocate does not apply. Pope An has said that crime is answerable under law. The law that pertains here is the law of the Vatican. Why do you keep forgetting that the Vatican is its own country?”

“Of course,” said Urbi, his show of bravado more pitiful than grand.

“Vatican Security retains the right to treat all acts against the Pope as terrorism. You are linked by physical evidence to the murder of Jivin, Cardinal Tayibha, and by assumption to the attempted murder of Pope An.” Stelo was growing angry. He found himself shaking with emotion. “How dare you do this thing, Urbi. How dare you abuse your position and trust to—”

This was more than Urbi could endure. “How dare I? I?” He shoved at the table and lurched to his feet. “You accuse me, you who support that woman who is determined to destroy the Church! She is the angel of the Antichrist. If you had not interfered, she would no longer be in any position to cause greater damage to the Church. Emptying the treasury! Changing the priesthood! What possessed her? Why was she allowed to do it?”

“It is not for us to allow the Pope anything,” said Stelo quietly, although he was still shivering as if with fever.

“It is,” said Urbi harshly, the veneer of complete indifference gone. “It should not have been allowed from the first. She ought to have been stopped before she came here. It should have been done. She isn’t wanted. They had no right to bring her here.”

“She was elected twice,” said Dionigi Stelo curtly, shamed by this display by his former colleague.

“And the College of Cardinals capitulated. What was their excuse for that?” Urbi was breathing hard now. “When have the Cardinals consented in their own ruin before? They were worse than sheep, refusing to do the job they were put here to do.”

“Urbi,” warned Stelo.

But he could not be diverted; the floodgates were open. “They ought to have denied her election. They should have repudiated her when that lunatic Mendosa found her. They could have. It could have been prevented, her reign. Something could have been arranged. She would never have left China—these things are often done. They lacked the courage to do their duty.”

“To whom?” asked Captain Hafen, his tone deliberately mild. “Surely not to God.”

Urbi sensed the trap. He became guarded. “Of course to God.”

“And anyone else?” inquired Inspector Cervi in the same quite way.

This time Urbi’s response was surly. “They know whom they owe allegiance.”

“Are you speaking in general? Or do you have specific Cardinals in mind?” asked Captain Hafen, then hesitated. He had pushed too hard.

Inspector Cervi attempted to incite another outburst. “Or which Cardinals do you think are protecting her, if she is protected?”

“You know who they are. I don’t need to tell you that,” said Urbi, sitting down once more. “And if I did, what would it mean? The lines were drawn months ago.”

“When Cardinal Tayibha died?” suggested Inspector Cervi.

“For some of us,” Urbi replied distantly.

Commendante Raccolto sighed; he recognized the impasse. “Perhaps you will explain it to us?”

“Me? Tell you?” Urbi jeered.

“One way or another, you will,” said Raccolto coldly. He looked at the nest of the examiners. “This is useless.”

“So you admit that.” Urbi folded his arms on the table. His cheeks were flushed and he was still breathing quickly.

Captain Hafen stood up. “I’m sorry you’ve taken this stance, Urbi. I would prefer to do this more reasonably.”

“There is nothing reasonable about this Pope,” said Urbi, fury underneath his calm words.

Dionigi Stelo rose, his face contemptuous. “I thought you a better man than this, Carlo.”

“At least I know how to maintain silence,” snapped Urbi.

“Yes. Until La Verita,” said Stelo.

Chapter 31

Willie Foot, wrapped in an outrageous paisley robe, was on the phone when Leonie woke up. She propped her elbow on the pillow and watched as he scribbled notes from what the caller was telling him. She could see his grave expression, and it troubled her.

As soon as he hung up, he rifled back through his notes, then glanced in her direction. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What time is it?” she asked, aware only that it was nearing dawn.

“Six-twenty, give or take.” He rubbed at his sandy hair, then put a few more notes at the end of the ones he had already taken.

She realized he was not going to explain without prompting. “What’s wrong?”

He stared at his notes, as if he had not yet made sense of their contents. “There’s been a very serious riot in Warsaw. Over thirty thousand people involved, according to police estimates. One of the churches there was badly damaged, a couple hundred cars were wrecked, windows were smashed and there were a lot of injuries. Hundred in hospital. According to…my caller, there could have been a few deaths, too. That part isn’t certain.” He reviewed his notes a second time. “God, I hope I can read this later on. It’s all pretty much scrawl.”

Leonie listened to him in growing apprehension. “Was the demonstration directly against the Church? Is that why you were called?”

“Not entirely; it’s the thing Mendosa calls Millennial Fever. There’s three priests and a bishop in Poland who’ve been predicting the end of the world, because it’s now 2000 A. D. They’re expecting the Great Beast and Six-Six-Six and all the rest of it. They’ve got the populace stirred up, and apparently that’s what it took to send them on the rampage,” said Willie, setting the notebook aside and tossing his robe onto the nearest chair. He wore loose fleece exercise pants under it, and he looked at his wife speculatively. “Shall I shed these, too?”

“Not yet. In a bit,” she answered, serious enough to catch his attention.

“This worries you, doesn’t it?” Willie said as he came back to the bed. “It worries me, too.”

“I don’t like it, and I have to talk about it. It’s been building up inside me,” said Leonie.

“Then talk,” said Willie. “Get it out.”

She did not say anything for a few seconds, as if his permission had taken her unaware. “It’s the course events are taking. Trouble seems to be escalating. There’ve been riots every day since Christmas, since Pope An made that statement about crime and sin. That’s been a trigger.”

“It’s also the number. Mendosa’s right about the number 2000.” Willie pretended to shiver.

“All right, but that makes it worse, not better. There’s a strong resistance to what she said, and I don’t think it’s going to be easy to persuade Catholics to accept her position on guilt. If more of this millennium insanity takes hold, who knows what the Church will have to do?” She stretched, and her fragile, white cotton lawn nightshirt rode further up her thighs. She ran her fingers through her hair. “I assumed by now the furor would die down, but it gets worse and worse. As a diplomat, it rankles.”

Willie lifted the covers and slipped back under them, sliding near to Leonie and easing his arm around her waist. “You feel so good.” He kissed her shoulder, then said, “It’s a scary time. Does it ever seem to you that she’s in over her head? Pope An? I get nervous for her.” He nuzzled her neck and when she gave only a token response, he asked, “How do you feel about what she’s doing? You still in favor of her reforms, or have you changed your mind? Some of the fairly moderate Cardinals are beginning to oppose her.”

“I know that,” said Leonie. She put her hand over his. “I like her. That probably makes a difference. And I know her; I respect her. Still, I think she’s doing an honest job. She takes the work seriously, but she…she sees it differently than the others do.”

“Because she’s Chinese and a woman,” said Willie. He could feel some of Leonie’s tension fade under his hand. “And most of the Cardinals don’t like that from the start. They don’t like her election. They don’t like being controlled.”

“Because of that, yes. Because she’s seeing the world through eyes that aren’t blinded by tradition and religion and…and—”

“Ego?” Willie suggested. “Those Cardinals are quite a bunch, aren’t they?”

“Some of them are decent men. But they didn’t get there through modesty and soft answers, not most of them. However little or much they believe in God, they live for the Church.” She rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, pretending to be able to make out the scene painted there. “I don’t think she understands yet why she can’t reach them through ethics.”

Willie sighed. “It’s not for want of trying. She’s been exhausting every means of communication, including the politics of the Church. She’s always looking for a better means to negotiate; you’ve been through that with her.”

“It’s exciting,” said Leonie. “You have to keep in mind more than religion; you have to keep in mind the whole range of international pressures.”

“And she doesn’t limit herself to international questions. She’s been all through the Gospels and the Apocrypha; I know you’re not much interested in that material. Neither am I, if it comes to that. Still. When she asked me to translate all those religious writings, Augustine, a Kempis, Aquinas, Saint Francis, Saint Theresa, Saint Catherine, the rest of that mystical mishmash, I didn’t know why she wanted it. I’m not sure I understand it now. I don’t know what she’s attempting to put to rights, not in that regard. But she told me that she was determined to know why so many of the Cardinals cling to those writers when they no longer have bearing on the world—some of them never did—not in any way that could be appropriate to what Catholics face today.”

“What Catholics are facing today are riots and rebellion,” Leonie said, then sighed. “I don’t think that’s what Zhuang wants.”

“I don’t think so, either,” said Willie, snuggling closer to Leonie. “I wonder when I’m going to get used to this.”

“To what?” she asked provocatively, turning her head so that she could kiss him. She was not yet comfortable with their daily intimacy and it showed in her urgent response; she reached for him, clinging to him as if she feared he would vanish. Very slowly she lessened her hold on him.

“To having you here. To every day.” He started to unbutton her soft nightshirt. “To not having to pretend.”

“It’s strange.” She held his eyes with hers. “Don’t you think so?”

“I’ll get used to it.” The angle of his brow softened. “So will you.”

“Maybe it’ll be too much for us,” said Leonie, fear hidden in her teasing words. “Maybe we’ll get bored.”

“If we were twenty-five, it might be possible,” said Willie. “Not now. I’ve wanted you with me for years. And at last it’s happened.”

“Married for six weeks and you aren’t bored yet,” said Leonie in mock astonishment. “There might be a future for us.”

Willie would not be pressured into dismissing her concern. “I want you to understand something, Leonie.”

“So there will be no blame?” she prompted, worry jolting her.

“So you’ll understand. I wanted to be married to you. Nothing Pope An said or did compelled me against my will. I know that marriages aren’t smooth. I know that there are good times and bad times, and that what works one day might not work the next. But I want to take those chances with you, because I think you’re worth the risk. You make everything worthwhile. All the years of waiting, and the scandal Arthur forced on you. We made it through that. And I think that between us we can get through the rough parts without doing each other harm. That’s why I wanted us to be married in the first place. Life is going to have rough times no matter what; with the two of us together those rough times won’t be as hard as they’d be if we were apart.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “That’s the truth, Leonie. I promise you.”

“And if you change your mind later? What do we do then?” she asked, hearing pain in her voice.

“What if you change yours?” he answered. “That’s for later. Right now you’re the best deal in the world for me. Nothing matters more. I’d like to be the best deal for you.”

“Oh, you are,” she said, a shade too promptly.

“But you’re not convinced. You made a deal with Arthur and it blew up in your face.” He finished unbuttoning her nightshirt. “You’re right. I can’t absolutely swear that it could never, ever happen to us. But I’m betting it won’t. I’ve loved you a long time when there was nothing I could expect from it but the heartache of missing you. That’s over. We have time to spend together, without hiding. I’m hoping you’ll come to trust what we have, given time.”

“And if I don’t?” She felt tears on her face and that made her annoyed with her own weakness. “Bloody irrational.”

Willie moved his hand over her flank, stroking slowly. “Good thing, too.” He kissed her again, this time full on the mouth. When he moved back a few inches, he said, his voice as much a caress as the seeking of his hands, “You see, I always made myself believe, against all odds, that we were going to end up together. I would not let myself think anything else was possible. No matter what, I hung onto that hope. By the time we were married, I was used to the idea. You’ve thought it was impossible, and so it still takes getting accustomed. It also takes remembering that I’m not Arthur and never will be.”

Tears continued to leak from the corners of her eyes, though she did not sob. “I know you’re not Arthur.”

“Most of the time,” Willie agreed. “But every now and then, you can’t quite shake the sense that I might have something about me, something you never learned or saw, and it could be wrong enough that it would drive us apart. That’s about the gist of it, isn’t it.” It was awkward to get out of his pants while lying in bed, but he managed it.

She did her best to chuckle, with disappointing results. “I’m sorry,” she said of her weeping. “I don’t know why I’m doing this.”

“You’re getting comfortable,” said Willie. “It’s been so long that we’ve had to dissemble and make the most of a few stolen moments that you’ve been geared for that. Now you’re starting to accept that we really are together all the time and it’s all right. No more covert activities. Everything you’ve held inside can come out.” He touched her face where the tears were. “Go ahead. It’s okay with me if you cry.”

“But—” Without warning she gave way, sobbing steadily and deeply while he held her and whispered his devotion to her as the new day began to lighten the Roman sky.

* * *

In the fourth week of the Vatican International Conference on World Hunger, in mid-February, Dionigi Stelo resigned without fanfare as the head of Vatican Security. Amid speculation as to the cause of this unexpected development, Stelo retired immediately to Sardinia where he steadfastly refused to grant any interviews to any member of the press or newsmedia. Two days after his departure, Axel Maetrich assumed his post, and began by quietly dismissing six high-ranking members of the security force by the end of his first day. Three Priests and a Bishop were given new assignments away from the Vatican, all in places where the routines of everyday poverty would demand their attention and keep them far from each other and the easy reach of reporters.

A Bishop and an Archbishop were detained by Vatican Security and held by the Eurocops incommunicado while the revelations of Carlo Urbi and La Verita were analyzed for a court case of murder, and conspiracy to commit murder.

At the next press conference about the Conference on World Hunger, reporters seized upon this change of personnel and pestered Cardinal Cadini for some explanation of the events that had been made public.

“Please, please, ladies and gentlemen. This is not a meeting to discuss the security measures within the Vatican. That is being handled by the Security division, and I am in no position to tell you much of anything. I am not part of that organization; I’m only a Cardinal. You probably know as much as I do, or more.” He did his best to put the press conference back on track, saying with cheerful determination, “We are here to discuss the findings of this conference on world hunger, and a few of the proposals we have hit upon to begin the alleviation of world hunger in an expeditious and just way, with minimal political considerations and interference.” He gave them the full wattage of his smile, but this time none of the press were willing to be charmed out of getting answers.

“What did Dionigi Stelo have to do with the death of Cardinal Tayibha?” demanded a squat, energetic man with a strong Australian accent. “Is that why he retired? Because of Tayibha?”

Cardinal Cadini answered blandly, “Dionigi Stelo was head of Vatican Security at the time of the Cardinal’s murder. Other than that, I am not aware of any more significant link of one to the other, aside from the fact that Stelo was one of many investigating the cause of death.”

“Did he find out something?” demanded one African voice.

“Not that I am aware of,” said Cardinal Cadini, doing his best to keep from being drawn into any debate about Cardinal Tayibha’s murder.

“How many have been arrested?” shouted a man in Peruvian Spanish.

“I am not aware of any arrests but two, and I am not at liberty to discuss them, since the cases are still active and therefore the purview of Vatican Security, not the College of Cardinals or the Curia. I would not want to compromise their investigation, as I am sure you would not, either,” said Cardinal Cadini, making his refusal as cordial as possible.

“Who is this Maetrich?” called out a reporter from Prague. “Why should he replace Stelo?”

“You would have to ask Pope An that question. She is the one who requested that Maetrich be offered the post, and the Commendante of the Swiss Guard agreed with her recommendation, as well as the heads of Interpol and the Eurocops. That’s endorsement enough for me, if I were to be asked, though there is no reason I should be.” Once again Cardinal Cadini kept his tone very easy. “He’s younger than some, but he has very good experience.”

“Was Stelo forced to retire?” called out a man in Greek.

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that question,” said Cardinal Cadini. “I am not in Stelo’s confidence, and if I were, I would not betray his trust in answering. I’m sorry to have to disappoint you.”

“Why did he resign?” demanded a woman in Czech-accented Italian.

“The text of his resignation was released to the newsmedia yesterday,” said Cardinal Cadini, his affability unruffled. “I suppose you’ve read it by now. It is four days since he left the Vatican and as far as I am aware there have been no further communications from him.”

“But you believe that there were other reasons than current unrest for him to resign?” The reporter was Belgian but asked his question in English.

“None that I am aware of,” said Cardinal Cadini. “Journalists, please, would you mind if we discussed the newest decisions we have reached on the matter of world hunger?”

“Is Maetrich continuing to work for the Eurocops, or has he quit?” The man was Canadian according to his badge. “Are the Eurocops taking over Vatican Security? Or Interpol?”

“Axel Maetrich tendered his resignation from the EECPA when he was asked to become head of Vatican Security. Of course, his close association will be of mutual benefit. But arrangements for a closer affiliation have been on-going for some time. They aren’t significant in this case, as far as I am aware.” Cardinal Cadini sensed the mood of the reporters, and offered them a tidbit. “It is only my assumption—and I wish to make it clear that it is nothing more than my assumption—but I suspect that since Axel Maetrich attended the Jesuit seminary and left the priesthood after the first four years he was preferred above some of the other applicants because he was more familiar with the workings of the Church and the Vatican than some others might be; and because he was part of the EECPA, he also has an excellent command of the methods of that organization. But”—he held up his hand—“that is nothing more than my speculation. There is nothing official in it.”

“But to replace Stelo so quickly,” said a Scottish woman.

“Wouldn’t you agree that there are many reasons for the Vatican to be timely in putting this man into his position?” Cardinal Cadini inquired, his face as candid as a baby’s.

“Then you do admit that there are security problems at the Vatican,” said a Venezuelan, all but pouncing on what Cardinal Cadini had just said.

“There are security problems everywhere,” was Cardinal Cadini’s mild answer. “Your reports are full of incidents all over the world indicating that. We do not want to expose anyone at the Vatican to hazard. You will have to speak to Captain Maetrich if you wish to know more.”

“Does that mean that the Vatican is expecting trouble?” asked a Russian man in an expensive French overcoat.

“No one expects trouble; that is why we must be prepared,” said Cardinal Cadini. He made another stab at the supposed reason for the press conference. “I have the good fortune to inform you that it is Pope An’s decision to allocate twenty million dollars in Vatican funds to be used to establish a basic international pool of foodstuffs that can be distributed throughout the world on twenty-four hours notice. The Vatican would share responsibility for this distribution with the United Nations, and fund an international agency to oversee the distribution. That agency is to represent the widest possible social and political spectrum. So far nine countries have pledged support of this agency, and we are hoping that by the close of this conference next week more countries will have added their endorsements. We are also trying to establish the means to purchase any crop overruns from those countries which have surpluses and are willing to part with them.”

This time the reporters were prepared to go along with him. The Scottish woman called out, “And what would be the criteria for receiving this aid?”

“Hunger,” answered Cardinal Cadini beatifically, relieved that the resignation of Dionigi Stelo and the various unpublicized arrests were set aside for the moment.

* * *

Once he was on his knees Dominique, Cardinal Hetre, gave way to the heady sense of satisfaction that had been threatening to overcome him since he had awakened that morning. It had been all he could do to keep his elation concealed through the closing of the Vatican International Conference on World Hunger. Now that the delegates had begun their departure and the press was being handed copies of the resolutions passed, Cardinal Hetre felt he could finally succumb to inner triumph. The day was coming when he would be privileged to show the way to McEllton, to bring the shame of the Church to an end.

The chapel where he prayed was small, no bigger than two telephone booths stuck together, but the triptych paintings above the little altar were by Titian, sent to the Vatican by the Doge of Venice three hundred years before, and the cross was the work of Benvenuto Cellini’s apprentices, giving the little chamber an unexpected splendor. Cardinal Hetre ignored the prie-dieu and prostrated himself full length before the altar, pleased by the cool marble under his cheek that did much to end the disorienting exultation that had recently taken the place of his headaches.

“How fortunate You have made me, Dear Lord. You have given to me the sacred office of dispatching this interloper who has been sent by Satan himself to bring about the ruin of Your Church and the ruin of the world. I have known that the time would come and the task would be mine. But You have chosen Your instruments so strangely that I had many doubts to overcome. Surely this was my test and I give thanks that You gave me tenacity and strength to persevere when uncertainty threatened to undo me. I am humbled to know that Protestants might be summoned by You to help in this purging of the vile corruption that Your Church has endured.” The words came quickly, murmured on a single note as Cardinal Hetre said all prayers. He would not permit the intrusion of emotion to color his devotion. “I have sought for signs, and You have shown them to me. But now, as the time nears when the glorious act is to be done, I beseech you to reveal Your Will in this, so that I will not, in my sin and ignorance, further contaminate Your Church in my determination to free her from the coils of Satan.”

In the hall beyond the chapel there was the sound of steps and the clatter of conversation. Cardinal Hetre remained quite still, waiting until the disturbance was over before resuming his petition. He longed for the time when he could shout his vindication aloud.

“You have brought down others who have tried to end the reign of the Chinese woman. They were not pleasing to You and their actions were not those of Grace, but of vanity, and justly have they been discovered and punished. They sought a political victory, not one of the spirit, and therefore You have chastised them and seen them fall into the hands of the enemy.” He thought of the men who had killed Cardinal Tayibha by mistake, and a burst of intense satisfaction filled him. “You have shown that You will not aid in worldly concerns. You give the power of Your Hand to those who seek Your vengeance with pure hearts and ardent souls. For this I praise You every hour of my life, and will praise You with the blessed who sit at Your right hand in Paradise.”

Quiet footfalls had a muffled echo along the hall, but Cardinal Hetre was too caught up in his worship to notice them.

“Let me know that it is truly Your Will that this woman die at the altar as the sacrifice the Church demands. If You will not give me a sign, then I must do as my judgment requires. But if You wish her to die in another place, show me where You wish the death to be, and I will spend every breath of my life to do Your bidding. Forgive me for my Protestant allies, and spare them torments for their errors in faith because of what they will do to restore the Church to her rightful position. Let me be sure You are satisfied in what I have undertaken, so that I will not succumb to the despair that has drawn me down into the jaws of Hell.” He tried to block the quick memory he had of his own dream of priests kneeling before him, bare to the waist, reaching for him in repentant gratitude as he wielded the scourge over them. His excitement at the memory appalled him.

“Take away those desires, Dear Lord, and I will be certain in my soul that You will rejoice when the Chinese woman falls upon Your altar.” In the intensity of his distress he cried the words out, unaware that he had raised his voice. He pressed his forehead to the floor, loving it for being hard and cold, more obdurate than his flesh. “When the Church is once again cleansed, then my body will no longer suffer. You have promised that, and I submit myself to Your Will, which will rid me of these sins of the flesh. I feel the full weight of my sins and I acknowledge my guilt, as any true Christian must, no matter what the woman says. When the emissary of Satan is dead You will not allow those who defend Your Church to suffer such inner defilement. You have shown me the way to You, and I beg you to strengthen my resolve to vanquish her. Her death will prove my dedication to Your Church. When I have earned Your Mercy, the desires will disappear, and You will show Your favor by restoring health to the body because of the glory of my soul.”

Just beyond the door, Cardinal Tsukamara stood, concealed in shadow and transfixed by what he heard.

* * *

It was well after midnight when one of the grey-uniformed Swiss Guards tapped discreetly on the door to Cardinal Mendosa’s apartments. He waited until Priest Simeon Gilbert, fully clothed but groggy, opened the door. “I regret the disturbance, Priest, but the presence of the Cardinal is urgently and privately required by the Pope.” He said it as if by rote.

“Immediately?” asked Priest Gilbert. “It’s almost three.”

“Unfortunately I must ask you and your superior to hurry.” He did not meet Priest Gilbert’s eyes.

Priest Gilbert was now fully awake. “All right. Allow me ten minutes and the Cardinal will be ready.” He did not bother to wait for a response from the Swiss Guard, but closed the door and hurried toward Cardinal Mendosa’s bedroom. He became more apprehensive with every step. As the Cardinal’s night monitor, his usual tasks were little more than taking telephone messages from distant time zones and making sure the morning coffee was made.

Cardinal Mendosa was caught in exhausted sleep, his vision long since complete for the night. It took a firm shake of his shoulder to bring him awake, and three or four seconds for him to gather his wits enough to understand what Priest Gilbert was saying. “Take it from the top, Simeon,” he growled as he sat up. “What about the Swiss Guard? What time is it, anyway?”

“There’s one waiting for you. He says it’s urgent.” By now Priest Gilbert had worked himself up into nervousness. “It’s two-seventeen.”

“Did he say urgent what?” asked Cardinal Mendosa as he sat up, running his hands through his hair. “At two-seventeen?”

“Not specifically,” said Priest Gilbert. “And I didn’t ask. He only said the Pope wanted you to come.”

“Right you are,” Cardinal Mendosa said as he swung his legs out of bed. “If I’m not back by eight, inform Bishop Peverston that I’m with the Swiss Guard—wherever they take me—and ask him and Priest Viernes to put my schedule for the day on hold.” He stood up. “God, there are times I wish I were twenty-five.”

Priest Gilbert, who was thirty-six, nodded in commiseration. “You ought to be careful of wearing yourself out, Cardinal.”

“Tell that to the Swiss Guard out there.” He reached for his robe. “Okay. I’m going to take a quick shower and shave and I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“I said ten. It’s seven minutes now.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Have you any other instructions?”

“Not at the moment, no.” He headed for the bathroom, giving Priest Gilbert a signal to go back to the door. “Let him know I’m getting ready.”

Six minutes later Cardinal Mendosa presented himself to the Swiss Guard. His hair was still a bit damp from the shower and there were dark smudges under his eyes, but he appeared ready to deal with the world. He cocked his head to the side. “I don’t suppose you can tell me what this is all about,” he said, offering a handshake to the Guard.

“I have not been informed. Only that Maetrich and the Pope require your presence.” He looked slightly embarrassed as he said this.

“Reason enough for me,” said Cardinal Mendosa, and added to Priest Gilbert over his shoulder. “If anyone asks, I’ve been called away on an emergency. There’s no reason to enlarge on what or whose it is.”

“Very well, Cardinal,” said Priest Gilbert before he closed the door behind the departing Swiss Guard and Cardinal Mendosa.

The corridors of the Vatican were never wholly empty, and the occasional priest, monk or nun Cardinal Mendosa encountered regarded him with required reverence and covert curiosity as well; the Cardinal gave no sign of noticing them. When the Swiss Guard passed two Guard officers he saluted but continued on his way without pause.

“Can you tell me at least where we’re going?” asked Cardinal Mendosa when it became apparent that they were not going to the offices of Vatican Security. “Are we staying here, or is the meeting…elsewhere?” There were five apartments in Rome that were at the Pope’s disposal, and Cardinal Mendosa suspected that they might be going to one of them.

“We are expected in one of the conference rooms at the end of the lower corridor,” said the Swiss Guard. “Maetrich wants this to be private.”

“Good choice,” said Cardinal Mendosa dryly. There was a rabbit-warren of hallways and rooms in that part of the building, most often used by the second rank of Vatican staff.

“It was felt that privacy could best be maintained there,” said the Guard.

“Provided they don’t pack the corridors with you guys, I suppose they’re right.” Cardinal Mendosa covered a yawn with his hand. “Sorry. I’m still waking up. Was this Maetrich’s idea?”

“I believe so,” said the Guard stiffly, and remained silent for the rest of the way to the conference room.

“You arrive at last,” said Pope An as Cardinal Mendosa came through the door. She sat in a straight-backed chair, her hands folded in her lap. Axel Maetrich stood near the door, serving as guardian. “I am pleased, and I am grateful. I do not ask your pardon for the hour.” She indicated a chair near her. “Please, Mendosa. Your advice is necessary.”

“About what, Worthy Magistrate?” asked Cardinal Mendosa.

“A new problem,” said Maetrich curtly.

There were two other men in the room: Inspector Giotto Cervi of Interpol and Cardinal Tsukamara. The Inspector, his suit rumpled and his tie askew, was working at one of three medium-sized tables in the room, his laptop computer connected to a phone outlet. Cardinal Tsukamara sat in a chair at the back of the room, his head lowered, as if he wished to be invisible.

“Are we expecting anyone else?” asked Cardinal Mendosa.

“Cardinal Aquilino. He’s the only other of your countrymen here,” said Maetrich. “We have calls in to Cardinals Walgren, Bradeston, Durand, and Quillons; we’re expecting to hear from them within the hour. Also Cardinal Mnientek.”

For the first time Cardinal Mendosa felt a quiver of alarm. “The USA and Canada,” he said evenly. “Why all of us?”

“It is because of something Cardinal Tsukamara…discovered,” said Pope An. “It has bearing on the U.S. and Canada, I fear. Or so we must assume.”

“How’s that?” asked Cardinal Mendosa, and noticed at once how much care Pope An used in her answer.

“It appears that there may be those undertaking to…to.…” She faltered and turned to Axel Maetrich. “How would you express it?”

“I would say that we may have stumbled upon another conspiracy,” said Maetrich without apology for his bluntness. “One that has links to the U.S. and Canada. That’s the reason you’ve been put on alert.”

“You don’t mention Cardinal Hetre, only Cardinal Mnientek,” Cardinal Mendosa pointed out. “Is there some reason?”

“We believe so,” said Maetrich, being deliberately vague.

“A conspiracy, you say? Besides the Tayibha group?” asked Cardinal Mendosa, shocked in spite of his determination not to be. “I thought the matter was settled. Stelo’s gone and the rest are accounted for. Or didn’t we get them all? Is this another branch, or a whole new tree?”

“It may well be another tree,” said Maetrich, taking up Cardinal Mendosa’s metaphor. “I fear that without Cardinal Tsukamara’s help we might not have uncovered this one in time.” He shifted his stance. “I don’t know what apology I can offer.”

“You’ve only just got here, Maetrich,” said Cardinal Mendosa, recovering himself enough to speak sensibly. “If anyone should apologize, it’s us. We’ve been here all along.” He studied Cardinal Tsukamara. “What is it?”

Finally the Japanese Cardinal looked up. “I don’t know if it’s correct for me to discuss this. I am not certain in my heart. I’ve been wrestling with it since yesterday. What troubles me is the man was in front of the altar when I heard him, speaking to God. I may be violating the seal of confession.”

“Did whoever this is come to you to confess?” asked Cardinal Mendosa, more surprised than ever.

“No. I…I overheard him praying.” His face, usually impassive, revealed his inner turmoil. “That is what troubles me, that he was at prayer; he was speaking only to God. Overhearing him was an accident. I didn’t intend to. It was never my purpose to eavesdrop on him. If he had not been speaking so loudly, I would not have heard any of this.”

“Well, thank God that you did, if this is another conspiracy,” said Cardinal Mendosa, trying not to sound too impatient. “Think what could have happened if you had not stumbled upon…whomever you stumbled upon. Perhaps your good angel was responsible.”

“My good angel,” repeated Cardinal Tsukamara distantly. “I would like to think so.”

Axel Maetrich gestured toward Inspector Cervi. “It is fortunate that we are able to work quickly and with very little attention. Having Cervi here will make all the difference. It’s just as well we’ve given him a place at the Vatican. He’s already working on the problem.”

“Which involves the U.S. and Canadian Cardinals,” said Cardinal Mendosa.

“It may,” said Maetrich. “Not directly, or so we think.”

Cardinal Mendosa shook his head and moved a little closer to Pope An. “First Gemme, then the Tayibha group, and now this. The newsmedia’s going to have a field day when they find out.” He drew up a chair and sat down a few feet from Pope An. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Worthy Magistrate.”

“You are not plotting against me, Mendosa,” she said. “Therefore it is not your place to apologize. Those who wish me ill are the ones who have erred.” She shook her head. “If they wish pardon, they may come to me and explain why they have sought to injure me.”

Cardinal Mendosa nodded. “You’re more tolerant than I am, Worthy Magistrate,” he said.

“I believe that is expected of me, from what you and the rest have told me.” said Pope An, weariness making her eyes less brilliant than usual. “I am fortunate in my protection, and I appreciate what is being done, and how discreetly. But in this instance, I require more: I need your advice. This particular matter may be very difficult, more than the others.”

“And something of the difficulty touches the U.S. and Canada, is that it?” Cardinal Mendosa asked.

“It would appear so,” said Pope An, leaning back against the chair.

“And why is that?” asked Cardinal Mendosa, puzzled at how much trouble he was having prying the information out of Pope An.

She had nothing to say for several seconds; the only sound in the room was the soft tap of the computer keys, and occasional squacks from the machine. “From what was overheard, and from a few preliminary checks, it would appear that this conspiracy is directly linked to certain U.S. Protestants, very prominent.”

Cardinal Mendosa blinked. “Protestants?” He turned toward Cervi, demanding, “Is that true?”

“I believe so,” said the Inspector Cervi as he stared at the screen. “We are trying to find supportive evidence now.”

“You say prominent as well as Protestant,” Cardinal Mendosa observed. “Does that mean important or public or both?”

“Both, I fear,” said Maetrich. “Our inquiries have turned up a few very disturbing…links.” He glanced at Cervi. “Would you agree?”

“Reluctantly, I would have to,” said Cervi. “We have placed the Protestant’s European representative in the company of the churchman in question on two occasions, one of the instances documented by Eurocops. It would appear that this association has been on-going for some time. There is another factor, more disturbing, in the Eurocops report: present with the representative and the Cardinal was a man who is known as a free-lance intelligence operative from Ireland, originally.”

“I see,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “What about the Tayibha group—is there any tie to them?”

“Not that we can find. Nor is there a direct connection to Cardinal Gemme, except that they are of the same rank,” Maetrich responded. “That is one of the troublesome aspects of this development.”

Cardinal Tsukamara crossed himself. “I ought never to have spoken. If this man is condemned, it will be because of me.”

“Would you feel better if the Pope were hurt or killed because you did not speak?” asked Maetrich bluntly. “You need to review your priorities, Cardinal. You’ve let yourself be blinded by a sense of duty to the Church at the expense of the Pope.”

“Please, Maetrich,” said Pope An, lifting her hand to stop her new head of Vatican Security from upbraiding Cardinal Tsukamara. “If the Cardinal had no conscience he would have remained silent. Because he has one, it belabors him now. Don’t hold him at fault.”

“No, Pope,” said Maetrich.

Cardinal Mendosa looked directly at the Japanese Cardinal. “Who is it you overheard? And who is he dealing with in the U.S.?”

A knock at the door announced the arrival of Cardinal Aquilino of Chicago. Maetrich admitted him and his Swiss Guard escort and closed the door at once. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Cardinal.”

The hawk-featured third-generation Sicilian-American glared around the conference room. He looked tired, but not so tired that he could not deal with trouble. “What’s going on here?” he asked of the occupants at large before he went down on one knee to Pope An.

“There’s a crisis coming, Andy,” said Cardinal Mendosa.

“No doubt helped along by you,” said Cardinal Aquilino, taking up position opposite Cardinal Mendosa.

Cardinal Mendosa’s lips lifted a little. “Not this time. Sorry to disappoint you.” He indicated Axel Maetrich. “He’ll explain it to you. I hope. I’ve been trying to get him to explain all of it to me.”

Axel Maetrich gave a succinct review of the situation, still withholding names. When he had finished, he turned his attention to Inspector Cervi once more. “Anything else?”

“Some hotel reservations from France, fairly recent. The account numbers track even if the names do not. They place all three men in the same hotel, and room service has a record that all three of them were in the same suite. It doesn’t look good.” He continued to study his screen.

“Do you think you can tell us which Cardinal this is?” Cardinal Mendosa urged. “I don’t like guessing about things like this.”

“And I’m in no mood for twenty questions,” said Cardinal Aquilino, his old voice cracking with authority and bad temper. “Who has been dealing with Protestant organizations and professional spies?”

“Just the one spy,” said Cardinal Mendosa before Maetrich had a chance to retort. “I suppose that makes it better.”

“No doubt,” said Cardinal Aquilino, his tone acidic.

Pope An interrupted Maetrich before he could speak. “I must ask both of you to say nothing of what you learn here. It is very important that the identity of this Cardinal be kept in absolute confidence until Vatican Security can detain him for questioning. He must not be alerted for any reason.”

“I’ll say nothing,” promised Cardinal Aquilino at once, his face rigid with anger. “As if I would betray the interests of the Pope.”

“It’s not impossible,” drawled Cardinal Mendosa. “Lots of our colleagues seem to be doing it.” He took a deep breath. “Okay. Who are the Protestants and who is the Cardinal?”

For once Maetrich deferred to Inspector Cervi.

It was an honor that Cervi clearly did not want. He coughed nervously. “We have discovered a series of direct contacts between a senior official of International Vision, Ltd.—”

“Williamson!” exclaimed Cardinal Mendosa.

On the other side of the room Cardinal Aquilino crossed himself. “Jesus and Mary!” he whispered, and was not swearing.

“—and Dominique, Cardinal Hetre.”

There was silence in the conference room. Then Cardinal Aquilino glowered at the door. “Are you certain?”

Inspector Cervi looked miserable. “I’m afraid I am.”

Cardinal Tsukamara raised his eyes to meet Pope An’s. “I pray you will forgive me for what I have done.” He turned toward Cardinal Mendosa. “If I have broken the seal of confession, I want you to see that I receive full punishment for my sins.”

Cardinal Mendosa shook his head. “I’ll thank God for you and what you have done. You’ve broken no seal of confession and your vows are not compromised.”

“No,” said Cardinal Aquilino darkly. “The compromise here is that of a French-Canadian who has forgotten his faith entirely.” He rose, his face more raptor-like than ever.

Axel Maetrich gave a single nod. “And for that, he will pay in full measure.”

Chapter 32

Houghton Carey had just arrived in the Oval Office when Maxine informed him that he had a call from the Vatican waiting. He dropped his topcoat over the back of Maxine’s chair and spent the better part of a minute cursing under his breath. “Which one is it?” he asked when he had blown off the worst of his ill-humor. “Not Walgren again.”

“Cardinal Walgren is in Los Angeles at present,” said Maxine. “It’s Cardinal Mendosa.”

“Mendosa!” exclaimed Carey, remembering he had a campaign appearance to make in Houston in ten days’ time. “What on earth—”

“He’s been waiting for almost ten minutes. He wasn’t willing to hang up and call back.” There was no change in Maxine’s pleasant manner, but Carey could sense her alarm in the way she handled the papers stacked beside her computer terminal. “I think you’d better take it, sir.”

“You’re probably right,” said President Carey with an exasperated snort. “If I read Mendosa correctly, he won’t be put off.” He indicated the outer office. “Give me a few minutes alone with him, will you?” He was the first President to have his secretary occupy a corner of the Oval Office with him, which made it crowded since the room was not very large; he had come under some criticism for this, especially regarding confidentiality. He often made a point of sending Maxine out of the room when her presence might cause nervousness. Taking his place behind his antique rosewood desk, he pressed the active line button and lifted the receiver. “Cardinal Mendosa,” he said. “Good morning.”

“I hope you’ll still think so when you hang up,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Still, good morning to you, too, Mister President.”

“My secretary tells me this is urgent,” Carey said, not willing to waste time.

“It is,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “I wanted to prepare you before it’s released to the newsmedia, which we will have to do before the day is out. Advance warning, you could call it.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it’s going to be awkward for you.”

There were few words President Carey liked less than awkward. He set his teeth, saying, “Go on.”

This was a task for Cardinal Mendosa. He paused, then made himself continue. “Let me express it this way: the Eurocops have just made two arrests, one in London and one in Rome. There is a third, but it is here at the Vatican, and we are not yet certain how we’re going to proceed. There are others involved.”

“More conspiracies,” said President Carey, doing his best to make it a joke.

“Yes, I regret to say. And this one is tied directly to Reverend Williamson’s enterprises. That’s not a guess.” He let President Carey have five seconds to take that in. “We have proof, and we have a confession.”

“Reverend Williamson,” said President Carey. “Part of a conspiracy? You’re certain?”

“Yes, we are. The arrest in London turned up a few crucial documents, including tapes of telephone conversations. The tapes are admissible in the European Court. Between them and the memos, they’re pretty incontrovertible.” He gave a diplomatic cough. “There is a man, a free-lance agent, who was working for Reverend Williamson’s organization—”

“Which one?” interrupted Carey, hoping that it was one of the minor ones, independent enough to create plausible deniability for Williamson. The last thing in the world President Carey wanted was a more explosive relationship between Protestants and Catholics.

“International Vision, Ltd.,” said Cardinal Mendosa, dashing the President’s hope. “This agent has made a bargain with the Eurocops and the European Court. He is going to make a full, public confession, on television, with names and dates and intentions, in exchange for immunity and a pension for retirement and protection.”

Knowing he was grasping at proverbial straws, Carey asked, “Can he support his confession? You’re sure the evidence will hold up?”

“Yes, he can, and it will. The Court would not permit this public confession if he could not supply hard evidence. They’re not about to permit the man to implicate others unless he has the evidence to support everything he says. He has already produced a fair amount of corroboration.” Again he paused. “We can’t extradite Reverend Williamson to Europe, not that it would be advisable if it could be done. It would be more trouble than it’s worth, with religious freedoms involved. We have trouble enough with the conspirators we’ve arrested already. Whether or not you decide to take action against Williamson is up to your courts. But I ought to warn you that Vatican Security is faxing all the pertinent documents to the National Security Agency, for the record, so we can ask for confirming documents from the U.S. It’s not going to be easy to ignore.”

“Fuck a duck,” muttered Carey. “Why did this have to be in an election year?” He had intended to be amusing but his bitterness came through.

“It’s because of the millennium, Mister President. All kinds of lunacy can be expected at the millennium. And it seems that Reverend Williamson has been taking advantage of it.” Cardinal Mendosa lowered his voice as if he worried he might be overheard. “From what McEllton has given us, it looks as if they were planning to murder Pope An at the end of March. McEllton was to do the killing, and…one of the Cardinals was to provide access.”

“One of the Cardinals?” asked President Carey. “This is in addition to the ones you’ve already dealt with? You’re certain of this?” Carey exclaimed.

“He’s the one Vatican Security has…detained. We don’t call it arrested. That sounds so worldly.” Cardinal Mendosa hesitated again; this conversation was turning out to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

“And you’re certain of this? About the conspiracy being tied to Reverend Williamson?” asked Carey, certain that Cardinal Mendosa would not say anything if he were in doubt. “Never mind. If you people are faxing the NSA documents, you’re certain.”

Cardinal Mendosa did not argue the point. “I thought you might want to prepare yourself for McEllton’s confession this evening. INS is carrying it live and international. Gordon Mennell is going to interview McEllton immediately after his prepared statement. You know Mennell’s way of going for the throat.”

President Carey had been the subject of Mennell’s scalpel-like inquiries twice before and could not help but wince. “I hope your conspirator knows what he’s getting into. Mennell won’t tolerate loose ends.”

“McEllton requested him,” said Cardinal Mendosa pointedly.

“Oh, shit.”

“Precisely. And it’s about to hit the fan.” Cardinal Mendosa did his best to chuckle and failed.

Carey stared at the far wall where he had a number of photographs in frames, some of distinguished statesmen, some of world-class sports heroes. Most of the time he felt buoyed by them, but this morning they depressed him. “All right. I’ll contact the NSA at once, and I’ll talk to Justice. They ought to be able to recommend something.”

“A word of advice, Mister President,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Don’t try to gloss this over. And don’t wait too long, whatever you do.”

“Because it would help the Church and hurt Williamson?” asked the President, his tone sharp.

“Only partly; rumor and innuendo could do more damage than McEllton’s confession, if you don’t make an effort to get at the truth,” said Cardinal Mendosa, unoffended. “Because if something isn’t done, Williamson might decide to try it again, and he could strike closer to home.”

“You mean me?” Carey asked, incredulity taking hold of him.

“Probably not. I think there could be a long list of religious leaders ahead of you. Not all of them Christians, but most of them.” He paused again. “And I think his followers could get out of hand very easily.”

“You think they won’t get out of hand if we file conspiracy charges against Williamson?” Carey inquired. “They’d be picketing every government building from Bangor to Honolulu.”

“Better than dead ministers and rabbis, don’t you think? It might have the reverse effect—it could shame his followers enough that they would abandon him. That’s a best-case scenario, but it’s not impossible,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “And it might put the brakes on Dean Marcus and Reverend Patton. It’s time they stopped rabble-rousing and got back to preaching the Gospel.”

“Put the fear of God into them, you mean?” said Carey.

“I’ll settle for fear of the law,” answered Cardinal Mendosa, then added, “I’ll be available if you have questions.”

“What about the other American Cardinals?” Carey demanded, aware that Cardinal Mendosa was about to hang up.

“Cardinal Aquilino is the only other American Cardinal here. He has seen all the evidence and he’s sat in on the interviews with…those involved. He’ll report to you, if you like.” He went on in a lighter tone, “Andy and I don’t always agree, but at the moment we’re in accord. We have couriers on planes right now to the other U.S. Cardinals. I think Sean Quillons’ packet has already been delivered. The others will have everything in the next five hours.”

“And what then?” asked President Carey.

“I don’t know,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “They may come to Rome, they may decide it’s wiser to remain there. They’ve all been targets of Williamson’s people, and that could still flare up again. With Reverend Williamson implicated, there could be difficulties.”

“You have quite a way with words, Cardinal Mendosa.” The way Carey said it, this was not a compliment.

But Cardinal Mendosa pretended it was. “How very kind of you to say so, President Carey.”

“All right.” Carey sighed. “We’ll get on it at once. I may need to talk to you later today.”

“I’ll be at your disposal. If I am not available, speak to Bishop Mark Peverston—he’ll know where and how to find me.” He hesitated before saying good-bye. “You may or may not believe this, but I’m sorry about what’s happened.”

“Oh, I believe you. And I’m sorry, too,” said Carey.

Cardinal Mendosa went on. “But I’m not sorry enough to wish this revelation had not occurred. I’d rather this mess than a murdered Pope any day of the year.”

With deliberate irony, Houghton Carey said, “Amen to that.”

* * *

As cells go, it was quite comfortable. Rufus Greene had a good-sized room to himself, more like what might be offered at a youth hostel than what he expected of prison. It was because he was still on trial; and until the verdict, the Dutch were determined to show him the benefit of the doubt under the law and in how they housed him.

It was grey in The Hague. Low-lying fog had crept in off the ocean and turned everything to faded shades. The European Courts buildings, not more than two blocks away, were nothing more than vague, looming shapes in the distance; they might have been dinosaurs instead of buildings and Greene could not have made out the difference. He moved away from the window, returning to the larger of the two spartan chairs provided for him, his attitude mildly preoccupied. On the floor beside the chair there was a notepad, several pages covered in Greene’s small, meticulous hand. He picked it up, planning to resume his sorting-out of the events that had brought him here. He had put half a sentence on the page when a knock at the door demanded his attention.

“Who is it?” Greene called out to the guard posted on the other side of the door.

“Your attorney,” answered the guard politely. “Do you want to see her?”

“Yes; let her in,” said Greene at once, setting his notepad aside and getting to his feet. He brushed his shirt and cardigan sweater, feeling slovenly because of where he was, although he looked his usual neat self.

The woman admitted to the room was fifty-five, tall and gawky. She dressed functionally in expensive fabrics, and her iron-grey hair was cut into a low-maintenance, no-nonsense bob. Behind her glasses her light-brown eyes were hot as embers. She was one of the finest defense attorneys in all of Europe. “Good morning, Mister Greene,” she said as she was admitted.

“Good morning, Missus Camberwell-Selbie,” he answered, holding out his hand to her.

She shook it firmly once before taking the chair Greene had just occupied and lifting her briefcase to her lap. “We will reach closing arguments today, I think. I have exhausted the witnesses I can produce on your behalf, and I can conceive of no more extenuating circumstances to account for what you did. I would still like to recommend that you reveal everything you can about the activities of International Vision, Ltd. I realize that requires you to violate certain terms of your contract with them, but under the circumstances, the violation is a minor one. Their policy has direct bearing on your actions. With Reverend Williamson insisting that you acted beyond your authority—”

“The telephone recordings tell another story,” said Greene, unanticipated petulance making him sound like a recalcitrant child. “If you can get the judge to permit the recordings—”

“We’ve been through this before, Mister Greene,” said Missus Camberwell-Selbie, her Yorkshire accent a bit stronger. “We have asked the court to permit the playing of the tapes. We will have a decision this afternoon. I gather because such evidence would not be permitted in America the court is hesitant, since Reverend Williamson was not aware that what he said would be admissible in the European courts.” Her manner grew stiffer. “I am presuming that Reverend Williamson has presented briefs to that effect.”

“It would make all the difference,” said Greene.

“So it would,” said Missus Camberwell-Selbie, “but it’s not an issue now. We have too much against us. You have severely limited my options, and that in turn renders my defense minimal. I told you at the first that candor would be needed. You have decided not to answer every question, and that has led you to this state.” She tapped her briefcase with her blunt, unpolished fingernails before setting it aside. “I have been practicing law a long time, Mister Greene. For that reason, I would think you would listen to my advice. But you do not wish to. Well, I can’t change that, but I can remind you of the consequences of your actions.”

“I am familiar with them,” he said stiffly.

“You don’t behave as if you were,” she shot back at him. “If Reverend Williamson had not come here to testify, or if he had been on trial himself before now, your case would not be so bleak. But the United States has only yesterday decided to prosecute Reverend Williamson, and therefore the testimony he gave here was very damaging to you. When he testified here, he had no indictment hanging over him as he does now. He will make you his scapegoat if you permit him to. I would like to make one more attempt to persuade you to defend yourself. Do you suppose that’s possible?”

Her sarcasm did not daunt him. “I don’t see the point.”

She flung up her right hand as if to rid herself of him. “Shall I remind you that you are facing life imprisonment?”

“That doesn’t worry me, not now,” said Greene with his own quiet version of bravado. “I participated in something that is not legal. I must be prepared to accept the consequences of my acts.”

“Yes!” Missus Camberwell-Selbie agreed emphatically, rising from the chair. “But you are shouldering the load for Williamson as well as yourself, and you have not opposed anything that Clancy McEllton has said. Between the two of them, they have made it seem that you were the one to instigate the plan.”

“In a way, I was,” said Greene, looking away from his attorney. “I was given the task of putting the plan in motion. I contacted McEllton and paid him. I was the one who made the appropriate arrangements with Cardinal Hetre. I ruled out using other Cardinals, even those who supported what I was trying to do, because I feared that one of them might weaken, or decide that Pope An had to be defended because of the office she held in spite of the disapproval of the Cardinals.” He put his hands together as if praying. “That much is true.”

“And you’ve said so in court.” Missus Camberwell-Selbie was too well-bred to stamp her foot, but the way she walked the length of the room was precariously close to it. “Do you want to be a martyr, is that it?”

Greene shook his head. “Not very much. I’d rather be away from here, in protective exile, the way McEllton’s going to be. But the fact is, we were part of a conspiracy to commit murder, and I was the one who organized it.”

“On Williamson’s orders,” she reminded him, ready to shake him for his stubbornness. “Don’t you see how important that is?”

Greene lowered his head. “If the court permits the playing of the tapes, then what happened will be clear. If the court will not allow it, then I must accept it as the Will of God.”

“This isn’t about the Will of God!” she burst out, her patience exhausted. “This is about the law.”

“They must be the same or there is chaos,” said Greene very quietly.

“Is that how you justify conspiracy to commit murder? You blame it on God?” she asked as if she were cross-examining him in court. “I don’t understand you. You have insisted that you take responsibility. Are you doing that so that you can claim some sort of moral credit?” She came and stood directly in front of him, challenging him. “This case was brought to the bar faster than any I have ever seen before. Ordinarily it would be four to six months before you would be heard, but because of the very delicate nature of the crime itself you were given a very swift trial, very swift. The motions I made to delay the trial were not permitted because of the character of the offence. And to the extent that your conspiracy could be interpreted as terrorism, since it was directed against a head of state, you have been treated very well. But prison will be different, Mister Greene.”

Rufus Greene shrugged. “If they play the tapes, I will take it as a sign that God intends Reverend Williamson to answer for his plan. If they will not, then I will know that God protects Reverend Williamson. I will not act against God.”

“Your trial is not a religious test, Mister Greene, nor should it be,” Missus Camberwell-Selbie persisted. “You are not being held accountable by anything more supernatural than a jury. There is no reason to suppose that you have to answer to more than the twelve of them.”

“Four of them said they were agnostics. One said he was an atheist. How can they be accepted for a jury in this case? How can their judgment be weighed when they have no faith? Why did you permit them to be seated?” He had voiced this protest before, but now it was especially annoying to Missus Camberwell-Selbie.

“It is precisely because they are not religious that they were acceptable to the prosecution and to me. Any suggestion that there was pressure put on the jury through religious institutions, either for or against you, is not to be tolerated. You don’t seem able to grasp this simple concept, Mister Greene.” She moved away, giving him space to respond. “When I sum up, I will have to mention your strong determination to assume total culpability in this case. I will also have to say that you are not responsible. I hope that this will weigh with the jury and the judge when we reach what the Americans call the penalty phase. That’s the best I can do for you unless the tapes are admitted.”

“I accept that it may come to such an impasse,” murmured Mister Greene.

“That is what vexes me, Mister Greene.” She regarded him narrowly. “If we had had more time, I would have insisted that you conduct yourself differently. As it is, I have not been given the opportunity to direct your conduct as part of your defense. That has been a stumbling-block, I fear.”

“It doesn’t matter, Ma’am,” said Greene. “I couldn’t present myself any way other than as I am.”

“So you’ve said,” she said. “Nevertheless, there are ways to behave that are more in your interests than your present conduct is. It’s too late now to remonstrate with you, but I am going to do what I can to turn this to our advantage. I am telling you this so that you will not undermine my efforts. For a change.” This last was caustic.

Greene was suddenly alert. “What do you mean?” he demanded, his soft-spoken resignation gone.

“It is my intention, if the tapes are not admitted, to ask the jury to regard your actions as those of someone incapable of comprehending the true nature of the conspiracy; I am going to compare your mental state to that of a hostage, someone who has diminished capacity to comprehend his actions.”

“You will do no such thing!” Greene bellowed.

Missus Camberwell-Selbie was not impressed. She watched him, her expression sardonic. “Finally. You are beginning to realize the situation you are in. I suppose I ought to be grateful.” She took a turn about the room. “Since Reverend Williamson made it plain that he regarded you as a kind of servant, I intend to exploit that to the limits.”

“I am not a hostage; I understood what I was doing and what the penalties for failure could be.” His face was darkening as he shouted.

There was a firm knock on the door, and the guard stepped into the room. “Is there a problem, Missus Camberwell-Selbie?”

She glared at the guard for his interruption. “Nothing I can’t handle, thank you. Please let me continue my discussion with my client.”

“If you’re certain you’re not in danger,” said the guard, showing sufficient reluctance to leave that Greene turned away and tried to restore his composure.

“My client is in danger. I’m managing very well, except for your intrusion,” said Missus Camberwell-Selbie. “For the sake of confidentiality, I must ask you to move five paces from the door, as the law provides.”

The guard shook his head as if convinced that Missus Camberwell-Selbie was taking a foolish risk. “I’m supposed to stop any trouble,” he said, making it a leading question. He rocked back on his heels to express his obduracy, then delivered a half-salute and left the room, taking care to make as much noise as possible when he locked the door.

Missus Camberwell-Selbie had taken advantage of this interruption to prepare her next move with Rufus Greene. She let the silence stretch out between them, and finally declared, “I have no intention of arguing with you, Mister Greene. I am trying to keep you out of prison. If I can get you into a psychiatric institution, I will be satisfied. That is my goal.”

“It’s not acceptable to me,” said Greene, keeping his voice low.

“Would you rather be in prison?” Missus Camberwell-Selbie shook her head. “I don’t think so. There are religious men in prison as well as out of it, Mister Greene, and some of them would not hesitate to act against you. It is very likely that you would be murdered in the first six months.”

“If it is God’s—”

“Confine your remarks to the law, Mister Greene; we are not concerned with God,” Missus Camberwell-Selbie warned him. “You have put yourself at a serious disadvantage with your attitude. I am trying now to salvage some defense for you. Without your help, I might add.” She looked down at her shoes. “Let us hope that those tapes will be ruled admissible.”

“Won’t they send me to prison?” asked Greene sarcastically.

“With any luck, they will show how completely you have been in the thrall of Reverend Williamson. That will be useful.” She went and picked up her briefcase. “I want to put you on notice that any attempt you make at subverting your defense will bolster my plea. Do I make myself plain.”

“I suppose you do,” said Rufus Greene. “You want to label me mad.”

“I want to show that your capacity to distinguish between your religious convictions and the law became confused because of the influence Reverend Williamson has upon you. I hope it will be enough.” She started toward the door, pausing to append one last caution. “Don’t rely on demonstrations to save you. And don’t expect to be a martyr.” She rapped twice on the door.

“I think you’re wrong,” said Greene, hiding his distress, as Missus Camberwell-Selbie left him alone again.

He wandered about the room aimlessly for several minutes. He rarely missed watching television, but now, with his trial and the charges against Reverend Williamson so much in the news, he longed for a set that would keep him current with public response. His realization surprised him, for he had never thought of himself as a man interested in public response. Now he was hungry for information, for an understanding of his own notoriety.

Twenty minutes later, he sat down and resumed writing, filling several pages with self-chastisement for his vanity and pride.

* * *

In the last two years, Cardinal Mendosa had become very adept at avoiding the press. This evening he made good his escape from the Vatican by going out the entrance to the Vatican Museum with a dozen scholars from around the world. He kept in their company for several blocks going north, then left them and headed toward San Giuseppe, remonstrating with himself every step of the way. “I have to be an imbecile to do this,” he said aloud when his inner castigations were not sufficient to describe his perfidy. He was on an errand he abhorred. Yet he could not disguise his inquisitive interest, nor could he dismiss the uneasy tone of the message which brought him to this church.

He entered the building quickly, and after crossing himself and kneeling to the altar he approached the confessional, avoiding the scaffolding where renovation had been underway for the better part of a year. As he had been requested to do he remained near the confessional, wishing he had taken up smoking years ago so that he would have something to do while he waited, though the thought of smoking in church offended him deeply. He did not like lingering here in the shadows, where anything might happen.

He recognized the man who approached him, but was startled to discover that he was only about five-foot-eight; Dmitri Karodin’s charisma gave him the illusion of being a much taller man.

“Good afternoon, Cardinal Mendosa,” said Karodin, holding out his hand. His smile was quick, whimsical. “It truly is a pleasure.”

“Do you think so?” said Cardinal Mendosa, irritated at the other man even while he discovered how likeable Karodin could make himself.

“Of course. Anyone who has been as punctilious as you’ve been inspires my curiosity. After our indirect association, it is gratifying to meet you in person. That is the correct figure of speech isn’t it?” asked Karodin, who knew it was.

“It’ll do,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “My assistant gave me your message this morning. I didn’t know what to make of it.”

“I don’t suppose that there is much to make of it, beyond what it said,” Karodin told him. “I have something to tell you.”

“And you didn’t want to use the telephone, send a messenger, or use any of the other methods you might have employed. That means your news is either very trivial or very important, to be entrusted to none of your…functionaries. Including that elusive figure, the one you’ve identified only as your man in the Vatican.” He did his best not to accuse Karodin of anything, but there was an edge in the way he spoke that did not escape Karodin’s attention. “Bell’s mentioned him to me. So did Stelo, before he left.”

“Ah, yes, the redoubtable Stelo,” said Karodin thoughtfully.

“Did he know who that man of yours is?” asked Cardinal Mendosa.

“Alas, no; but you will soon. I’ve asked him to meet us in half an hour,” said Karodin, enjoying the astonishment the Texan could not conceal. “I believe it would be wisest if we worked a bit more closely for a while. The three of us, I mean. Without the good offices of Professor Bell.”

“Because?” prompted Cardinal Mendosa.

Karodin brushed the lapel of his gorgeous Italian wool suit, of a shade of brown between antique oak and dark mauve. His response was indirect. “I read the statement you gave the newsmedia about the trial of Reverend Williamson, and the change of venue to Hawaii. The Department of Justice worked very swiftly for once. You’re probably right, there would have been too much sensationalism if he was to be tried anywhere in the continental United States. It’s also likely that many of his followers will not be able to get to Hawaii for his trial, and there will not be the tremendous demonstrations that were feared.”

“No argument,” said Cardinal Mendosa, wishing he could require Karodin to come to the point; he obliged the Russian by remarking, “There’s also a better chance that they will be able to seat a jury that isn’t too opinionated.”

“And the jurors will not be harassed the way they might be in the Forty-Nine.” Karodin pursed his lips. “Do you think the verdict in Greene’s case will make a difference?”

“You mean conspiracy to commit second degree murder, while under duress?” Cardinal Mendosa inquired, suspecting he was being put to some variety of test. “It doesn’t paint a very flattering picture of Williamson or his associates or his conversion techniques. By the same token, that tirade Williamson had on television shortly before he was arrested probably hurt his cause more than it helped it. Little as his people may like the Catholic Church, most of them do not condone murder. He came off looking rabid. Most Americans don’t like extremists, not after the first thrill of absolute conviction. I doubt that most of the people listening felt that Williamson was as justified as he said he was.” He lifted his brows. “Well?”

“To a point, we’re in accord,” said Karodin. “Whatever danger Williamson represented has been diminished because of his behavior in the last week. Those who were uncertain of him are probably now against him; those of his followers who are convinced that he is God’s man on Earth no doubt consider him a persecuted hero. If you want my opinion, I’d say that his ranting was a gamble, a deliberate gamble. How much of that might be a legal ploy, I can’t say, but if it was one, it misfired.” He motioned to Cardinal Mendosa. “It would be wiser to leave. One or the other of us could be recognized.”

“That had crossed my mind,” said Cardinal Mendosa sardonically.

Karodin grinned. “I have a car waiting outside. I think it would be best if we let my driver take us for a short scenic tour, don’t you?”

“A short scenic tour sounds sensible,” said Cardinal Mendosa, his apprehension beginning to lift. “You want to make sure no one overhears us?”

“That’s part of it. And because my man in the Vatican is supposed to meet us at another location in a little over twenty minutes.” He started toward the door, then paused to look up at the scaffolding. “I understand that tourist donations have paid for this work. Is that true?”

“For the most part, yes,” said Cardinal Mendosa.

“What does Pope An have to say about that?” He was not expecting an answer and so was not disappointed when Cardinal Mendosa had no comment to make. He went outside, shading his eyes against the sun. “Even at the beginning of March the Roman sky is brilliant,” he said as he fumbled for dark glasses.

A limousine with amber windows drew up to the curb.

“Yours?” asked Cardinal Mendosa. “Isn’t that a little grand?”

“‘When in Rome,’” quoted Karodin, and opened the door for Cardinal Mendosa before climbing in behind him. “Were we in Russia,” Karodin went on as the limousine pulled into traffic, “we would not use a vehicle like this. But in Russia there would be places I could arrange to use that would guarantee our privacy. Oh,” he went on, seeing the rigid disapproval in Cardinal Mendosa’s face, “nothing unpleasant. There is a dacha very near Moscow that is quite nice, a wooded setting with a brook for trout.”

“And you go there to fish,” said Cardinal Mendosa, leaving no doubt as to his meaning.

“Sometimes,” said Karodin. “Unfortunately, here I am reduced to using luxury transportation.”

“How regrettable,” said Cardinal Mendosa with exaggerated sympathy. “But in these capitalistic times, I thought luxury was possible in Russia.”

Karodin laughed. “I like you, Mendosa. I suspected all along that I would. And certainly you are aware that capitalism in Russia is unpredictable.”

“You’re very kind,” said Cardinal Mendosa nastily, then relented. “Sorry. You have something you want to tell me.”

“Yes, I do.” The amusement disappeared at once. “I wish I didn’t.”

“Then it is serious,” said Cardinal Mendosa, his chest feeling suddenly very cold. “In that case, you’d better tell me; I need to know if there’s anything I’m going to do about it.”

Once again, Karodin’s response was indirect. “What is the state of Maetrich’s security effort, do you know?”

“You’re not speaking against Axel Maetrich, are you? He’s been taking very good care of Pope An,” exclaimed Cardinal Mendosa, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’ll have a hard time convincing me that he’s up to no good. He’s been dependable and circumspect.”

“No, no. That wasn’t my meaning. As far as I am aware, Axel Maetrich is a very honorable man. He has made a number of realistic and sensible changes in commendably brief time. But I fear he is short-sighted.” He leaned forward, the leather upholstery creaking with his movement.

“Short-sighted how?” asked Cardinal Mendosa.

“From what I have learned, he has become…relaxed. Now that he has instituted better security scanning for the general public and several sorts of monitors throughout the Vatican, he is convinced he is prepared and will not be taken unaware. It appears that he is satisfied that there are no more plots against Pope An, not for the time being. He has let it be known that anyone who had been thinking of killing the Pope would now have the good sense to abandon the plan, given what happened to Cardinal Sinclair’s group, Urbi, and then Reverend Williamson. He has determined that there is no reason for immediate concern, what with Interpol and the Eurocops assisting Vatican Security. I wish I could agree with him: that is not my assessment of the situation.”

“Meaning that you suspect there may be another conspiracy?” Cardinal Mendosa asked, reserving his opinion.

“I don’t suspect it, I am certain of it.” Karodin said it intractably.

The limousine crossed the Cavour Bridge and headed eastward through hectic traffic. Its size gave it an advantage against everything but trucks and vans.

“Does that mean you have suspects, or only suspicions?” asked Cardinal Mendosa, reserving his assessment for the moment.

“Some of both,” said Karodin. “What I lack is admissible evidence. I cannot take what I have to the courts, not at the Vatican and not in The Hague. But what I have learned troubles me.” He pulled a large sealed envelope from the space concealed under the armrest. “Have a look at this. If you know someone in the intelligence field you trust, get a second opinion.”

“My brother-in-law,” volunteered Cardinal Mendosa. “If you don’t object to my faxing whatever you’ve got here to him. He’s got a secure line and I have used it from time to time. He’ll keep it to himself.” He resisted the urge to tear the envelope open.

“Ah, yes, the incomparable Mister Nimmo. I’ve never actually met him, though there was a time some years ago when we came very close to it.” His smile was genuine and voracious at once. “By all means, let him examine what we have discovered and make the most of his opinion.”

“I’ll give him your regards,” said Cardinal Mendosa with urbanity.

“Please,” said Karodin sincerely. “Agents of his caliber don’t come along often. When he retired, I missed him. He understood the game better than most.” He tapped on the window dividing the front of the limousine from the back. The driver nodded. “We’re about to pick up the man you’ve been so curious about,” he told Cardinal Mendosa. “My mysterious man at the Vatican. I imagine you’ve tried to figure out who it could be.”

“Naturally,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Leo Pugno told me about your meeting with him in Austria, but he’s not the one, is he?”

“No, of course not,” said Karodin. “He was a precaution.”

“I hope you didn’t tell Leo that; he’d be outraged.” The Texan made a gesture of restraint. “Will you answer me one question before we pick him—whoever he is—up?”

“I may. It depends on the question,” said Karodin.

Cardinal Mendosa nodded his acceptance. “Why are you doing this? It’s been driving me round the bend, trying to figure it out. The whole of it, the intelligence work, the support. You’ve gone out on a limb for Pope An. I can’t figure out what you hope to gain by it.”

“Ah.” Karodin shrugged. “And why not?” He turned toward Cardinal Mendosa. “For one thing, I have a natural tendency to…I think you call it kick shit.” His amusement faded. “Do you have any notion how rich the Church is? Do you know how much political power it has? Do you have any comprehension how great its influence is?”

“Some. Not from your perspective,” said Cardinal Mendosa.

“I thought someone like her might change that, might turn the power and wealth of the Church to other uses, less oppressive ones. At the least, I thought she would bring about a reassessment. It seemed worth the effort.” He looked out the window. “She’s been…a godsend, hasn’t she?”

“Quite literally,” said Cardinal Mendosa, his voice very quiet.

Then Karodin sat up straighter. “There he is.” He rapped on the window again and the driver pulled the limousine toward the curb in front of San Camillo. Karodin reached to open the door.

A few seconds later, Piet, Cardinal van Hooven stepped into the limousine and met Cardinal Mendosa’s dumbfounded gaze with a hint of apology. “Shocking, isn’t it? It began as blackmail, Charles,” he said as he took one of the rear-facing seats. “But eventually I decided that Karodin has a point.”

“How could anyone blackmail you?” Cardinal Mendosa asked before he could find a more diplomatic way to express it.

Cardinal van Hooven hitched up his shoulders and looked directly at Cardinal Mendosa. “Because I’m homosexual,” he answered.

Cardinal Mendosa slapped his knee. “Well, hell’s bells, Piet, so’s my nephew Tom. You didn’t have to knuckle under because of that. How many of the College of Cardinals are like you? Twenty-five percent, sounds about right, don’t you think?”

“Yes, as far as it goes,” said Cardinal van Hooven.

“Meaning?” challenged Cardinal Mendosa, pretending he did not see the irony in Karodin’s eyes.

“Meaning, I suppose, that I had little protection in the hierarchy. My family controls no banks, no corporations, no crime syndicates, no transportation organizations, has no political position, no academic acclaim, nothing, in short, that would immunize me from disgrace and excommunication.” His slight smile was sad. “Pope An changed that, but it was too late to have impact on me, other than philosophical relief.”

Karodin addressed himself to Cardinal Mendosa. “You spoke out against the persecution of homosexuals by the Church two decades ago, as I recall. It got you a great deal of attention.”

“Seventy-nine,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “I was a bishop then, and one of my priests had been arrested. God, it made me mad, watching how they dogged his heels and ran him into the ground.” His color heightened at the memory. “Josh Winters was his name, poor bastard.”

“Then you understand my predicament,” said Cardinal van Hooven quietly.

“Oh, yeah,” said Cardinal Mendosa, then made a gesture showing his helplessness. “You of all people. You’re a psychiatrist.”

This time Cardinal van Hooven was able to chuckle. “Use your head, Charles. Why do you think I became one, if not to understand my own needs?”

“Makes sense,” said Cardinal Mendosa. He looked at Karodin out of the tail of his eye. “You going to tell me why you blew van Hooven’s cover?”

“My reasons are completely pragmatic,” said Karodin. “Pope An is in danger and she needs the help of those who truly support her and her works. And,” he went on before either Cardinal could speak, “I’m relying on both of you to keep your mouths shut.”

“If it would protect her, I’d take a vow of silence this afternoon,” said Cardinal Mendosa, with such utter conviction that even Karodin was impressed.

Van Hooven looked oddly pleased behind his thick glasses, but said nothing as the limousine sped on.

Chapter 33

In spite of the scrambler and the distance, Elihu Nimmo’s voice sounded remarkably distinct, as if he were talking from Rome instead of Texas. “You had breakfast yet?” he asked his brother-in-law in Rome.

“Five-thirty’s a little early for me,” said Cardinal Mendosa, dead-pan.

“Oh.” Nimmo paused to work out the time zones. “Sorry. Your man said he’d get you and I thought—”

“Don’t worry about it, Spook. I said I wanted to take your call, whenever it came.” He was impatient with Nimmo; he was anxious to know what he thought of Karodin’s information. “I meant it.”

“Well, I didn’t want to.…” He let his apology drift. “I’ve been over your stuff,” he said, sounding more like himself. “I don’t know where you got it, but it’s damned potent. I’ve been over it, looking for flaws or plants and I’m damned if I can find any; if they’re there, I haven’t been able to spot them. I’d say this is straight goods. I’m convinced. You don’t want to hear this, but if it was up to me, I’d have to tell you that your Pope is in a very tight situation. The men behind this have a plan and they’ve covered their asses. And I don’t have a notion how you can break the case before one of these maniacs tries something stupid.”

It was the answer Cardinal Mendosa was expecting but it was also the one he wanted least to hear. “Can’t you suggest something?” he asked, hearing his desperation in his voice; the dream had ended in a nightmare again last night, Pope An’s luminous face destroyed and Cardinal Mendosa unable to prevent it.

“You mean, something you could do on the sly?” said Nimmo, in a tone that told Cardinal Mendosa that Nimmo had already thought about it.

“Yeah, something like that,” said the Cardinal.

“That depends,” said Nimmo, his manner becoming distant and critical. “You’re not in a good tactical position, but we might be able to work out a strategy that will turn it around.”

“Why is my position bad?” asked Cardinal Mendosa sharply.

“Because you live in a fishbowl, Charles. You’re always in the spotlight. You have a very high profile.” He said it casually enough, but Cardinal Mendosa could hear the disapproval behind the smooth rejoinder.

“But there’ve been other Cardinals who were trying to bring her down, and we didn’t find out about it until pretty late in the game,” the Cardinal protested.

“They had the other Cardinals to act as baffles. You don’t.”

“You mean some of the others don’t cotton to me. That’s true enough. I don’t cotton to all of them, either. And I’m not inconspicuous the way some of them are. When I think someone’s scum, it shows.” He had learned to speak about himself as if he were another person many years ago and there were times he clung to the skill with frantic tenacity—never more than now.

“You’ve been allied with the Pope since before day one. You can be pretty sure that there are some of the other Cardinals who resent the shit out of you for that.” Nimmo paused. “I’d guess, from what I’ve seen, that you’ve got half a dozen men in this plot. They’ve got to be Bishop-rank and higher up. One or two of them must be Cardinals, just for access.”

“The man who provided the information would agree with you,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “He reckons that it’s half Cardinals. Three. If there are no more than six men in the conspiracy.”

“Sounds reasonable to me.” Nimmo paused and there was a faint crackling that might be the sound of rustling paper or feedback from the scrambler. “I go along with what your man guessed. Whoever he is, he knows his business.”

“He said the same thing of you,” Cardinal Mendosa interjected.

“Well, well—that limits the field; you’ve got a good contact,” said Nimmo, and resumed his evaluation. “My fix on these guys would be Latin America, just like your contact thinks; maybe other Third-world countries, or Pacific region, where they worry about China. I go along with the assumption that the Cardinals involved are tied into the upper-class power organizations, the ones with a lot to lose if Pope An follows through with this World Hunger project of hers. The ones who have relatives in high places and money in the family. The Cardinals who protect the poor and work for the relief of the oppressed are not going to be part of this, but the guys who are part of the money-influence-prestige circuit, they fit the profile for the conspiracy.”

“It could get very sticky,” said Cardinal Mendosa, thinking aloud.

“It already is sticky, Charles. You’re so used to it, you haven’t noticed,” Nimmo corrected him. “You told me a few years ago that the Vatican was the most convoluted, deceptive, untrustworthy, corrupt place in the world.”

“It’s still true, part of the time,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “With Pope An here, things have improved a little.”

“Well, that might be good enough for you, but it would worry the shit out of me, with those ambitious back-stabbers trying to recapture their territories,” Nimmo declared, then amended his blunt statement. “That’s assuming most of them haven’t learned better yet. From what I’ve seen in these pages, you have guys there who will forgive anything but virtue.”

“That’s a fact, sadly,” said Cardinal Mendosa.

“And they’re playing it very close to the chest. The earmarks show that they’ve been working for well over a year to pull this off and this is all that’s been gleaned from them.” Nimmo paused. “Don’t move against these guys until you know absolutely that you can get them and make the case. They’re powerful and they’re protected. If you try to round them up before you’re ready, or if you leak something to them, they’ll go so far underground that they’ll reach magma, and you won’t know when they’re going to strike again until they’ve done it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” vowed Cardinal Mendosa.

“Incidentally,” said Nimmo as an afterthought, “I don’t figure it’s just politics and money behind this. I think you have first class reactionaries running this show. We’re taking about men with the same mentality as the Inquisitors had, torturing people to death to save their souls.”

“Women,” corrected Cardinal Mendosa.

“What?” Nimmo asked, thrown by this interruption.

“Women, I said.” Cardinal Mendosa repeated. “Almost ninety percent of the Inquisition’s victims were women. Go back and read the records. Or read that new book Sidgwick and Jackson just published in London, taken from the records in the Vatican Library, the one written by the American and the Brit. It’s pretty damned chilling. They sent me a review copy last year.”

“Charles, for God’s sake,” protested Nimmo. “We’re talking about a plot to assassinate the Pope.”

“We’re talking about a plan to murder a woman,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “That’s part of the issue, that she’s female. For some of those reactionaries, whether they’re conspirators or not, her sex is the most damning thing about her.” He shifted back in his chair and reached for a notebook on his desk. “It’s part of the reason for their…righteous indignation.” The last two words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Could be,” said Nimmo. “You know more about that than I do.” He waited for a comment and when none came, he said, “Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you what you wanted to hear. Okay? I wish I could dismiss your worries, saying that your informant is suffering from delusions. But you asked for my professional opinion, and I’m giving it to you the best way I know how.”

“And I’m grateful. Blame my churlishness on the hour,” said Cardinal Mendosa at once. “You’ve been very good to do this and I do appreciate your time and expertise. I guess I was hoping that you’d have a magic wand you could wave over the material we sent you and come up with identities.”

“I’d like to do that, myself,” said Nimmo, chagrined.

“I suppose I have to pass this on to Maetrich. Not that he’ll be able to do anything much with it.” He wanted to sound confident but was not able to muster the energy. “If I learn more, I’ll pass it on. You might be able to connect the dots for me.”

“I’ll try,” promised Nimmo. “Sorry again about the time.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “If that was the worst thing that happens to me today, I can count myself blessed.”

“You probably do that anyway,” said Nimmo, about to ring off.

“Give my love to the family. I miss them.” He often admitted this aloud but always with the sinking feeling that he was shirking his duty by allowing himself to long for the company of his brothers and sisters.

“Will do. You try to stay out of the line of fire, Charles.” With that good advice, he hung up, leaving Cardinal Mendosa to pace the floor for twenty minutes before he went to shower and shave.

* * *

“I’ve always had a special affection for Saint Jude,” said Cardinal Cadini at his most expansive as he led the way down the gravel path toward the rear of the garden. On his right were Pope An and Sean, Cardinal Quillons of New Orleans; on his left, Sergios, Cardinal Phinees of Cyprus, and Archbishop-soon-to-be-Cardinal Keahi Wailua. Behind him, Willie and Leonie walked hand in hand. “Imagine being the patron saint of lost causes. How much more honest that is than being the patron saint of photographers, or lapidaries. What better saint to pray to, no matter what you wished. The only thing we pray for, except what’s in the liturgy already, is lost causes—that’s why we pray, because all other avenues are closed to us, or we have not yet seen them. Thinking we can do nothing more, we ask God, or one of His family to come to our rescue. Saint Jude must be the busiest of all of them.” His laughter was echoed by most of the others, except Archbishop Wailua, who was still suffering from jet-lag, having arrived from Honolulu less than twelve hours ago, and was not yet used to being in such august company so casually.

“Are you suggesting we do away with all the rest?” asked Cardinal Quillons, pretending to be outraged. “Demote all the saints but Jude? And Dismas, of course. Jesus promised him Paradise and we can’t rescind that.”

“No, and we ought not. Yet it wouldn’t hurt to be rid of some of them. Take Saint Hubert and his ravens: do we really need Odin, appropriately disguised, in the calendar any more?” The question was not meant to be taken seriously, and they all knew it. “People like Hubert. They like Barbara and Katherine and Benedict and Honare and Genevieve. And they like the others. But some housecleaning wouldn’t hurt. For instance, the cult of Saint Cynehelm isn’t nearly what it used to be: a prince of Mercia killed in youth at the order of a politically ambitious older sister has a tenuous claim on a martyr’s crown. And in any case history tells a different story about the lad. And his sister, for that matter.”

“What are you suggesting, Cardinal Cadini?” asked Cardinal Phinees, uncertain of how he was to respond to these extravagant statements.

“Well, we might do away with the relics, as a first step,” said Cardinal Cadini blithely, relishing his speculation. “Those jeweled caskets for bits of bones and such. It’s always bothered me, these ghastly tokens we have so lovingly collected and preserved.”

Pope An regarded him with interest, her eyes brightening. “I have been very puzzled by the relics. They are not for the veneration of ancestors, or the honor of a community, but are supposed to be some means of holding onto the presence of the saint. Have I understood correctly?”

“Generally, yes you have,” said Cardinal Cadini at once, before the other three had time to respond. “It was thought, in the earlier days of the Church, that possessing some portion of a holy thing or holy person was a viable substitute for the holy thing or person. So the chopped-off fingers of some poor wretch were preserved as relics. There was quite a lot of competition between various churches and cathedrals in the Romanesque and medieval periods. Those churches with the best relics and the handsomest reliquaries attracted more interest, and more pilgrims, as well as more money. Towns with important pilgrim churches thrived; you might call it the medieval version of the tourist trade. The relics were the bait for them. Awe-inspiring cathedrals and a plethora of relics. The bits and pieces were supposed to improve the status and spiritual benefits of the church housing them; there are more pieces of the True Cross in reliquaries than could have been used to make a dozen crosses.”

“Then the people are duped by these things,” said Pope An, no longer as indignant at the Church for these excesses as she had been a year ago.

“No,” protested Cardinal Quillons. “Not duped. Misled.”

“It appears so to me,” said Pope An, and regarded Cardinal Cadini steadily, waiting some explanation.

“Duped? Yes and no. Many of them were pious frauds, clearly intended to strengthen the faith of the people. The mentality of the time didn’t regard such things as hypocrisy or duplicity. Sometimes there were actual items held by the cathedral but because of the risk of theft, copies were displayed instead of the real thing so that the spiritual benefits to the church would not be compromised. I think that many people were truly convinced that they had the real thing, copy or not, whatever it was.” Cardinal Cadini reached a small fountain and stopped, turning to look back along the path to the villa. “You can’t blame them, really. They wanted something to promise them salvation, and these gruesome talismans seemed to do the job.”

“But they were deceptions,” said Pope An reasonably.

“Deceptions, yes, but many of them strengthened faith in spite of that,” said Cardinal Quillons, daring at last to defend his position. He was one of those men with rugged, ugly faces who were deeply attractive. “The people were credulous then, wanting to believe.”

“It was not right to deceive them, no matter what the motive,” said Pope An, sighing. “An acceptable excuse does not justify the action.”

“That’s a political statement, Pope,” said Cardinal Phinees. “We are discussing virtue.”

Pope An shook her head once, frowning a little with concentration as she pursued her own thoughts. “They are no so far apart. We are so concerned with vice that we do not question the motives of virtue. That’s an oversight.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to change that?” cried Cardinal Cadini in mock dismay. “What will the Curia make of it?”

“That’s for the Curia to decide,” said Pope An, dismissing the issue. Then she glanced over at Cardinal Cadini. “Tell me: is there anything I have done you would do differently?”

Cardinal Cadini did not offer her a flip answer. “The only thing I might have held off on was abolishing the honorifics, as much for pride as anything. But all the rest is needed, and I welcome what you have done. I pray you will build on your own progress, Pope An.”

“And if you were Pope, what would you do?” she asked in a clear and penetrating manner.

“Just what I have said,” Cardinal Cadini assured her with a warm smile and strong conviction; his raisin-eyes twinkled. “I would reinstate the honorifics as a salve to the bureaucracy and then I would continue to reform the Church in order to restore her purpose.”

Leonie was close enough now to call out in Chinese, “What do you think of our new place, Worthy Magistrate?”

“It is very beautiful,” answered Pope An in the same language. “You are fortunate to have found it. It makes me long for the farm I left in China.”

“The advantage of being a journalist,” said Willie in English for the benefit of the men with her. He was pleased that the discussion had been steered to safer ground for the time being; there would be more than enough politics and religion over luncheon. “I heard of this as soon as the former owner decided to sell. He’s a friend of a friend, someone I had met once or twice. I made an offer before it was actually on the market.”

“You show prudence,” approved Pope An. “And you have profited by it.” She motioned to Cardinal Cadini. “What do you think of it?”

“I think it’s splendid,” said Cardinal Cadini. He turned to Willie. “I plan to wangle—that is a very useful word I learned from Charles—invitations out of you all year long. I shall lie in your garden like a beached porpoise and become intoxicated on the scent of growing things.”

“You’re always welcome,” said Willie.

Archbishop Wailua stared at the weathered bas relief sculpture set into the hill behind the fountain. “How old is that?” he asked, pointing to the marble figures. “It’s been here quite a while, by the look of it.”

“That it has. About two thousand years. There used to be a Roman villa on this site. The fountains were part of their baths.” Willie gestured expansively, enjoying himself. “You can see, in the next garden over, where some of it has been excavated. I’ve had a call from two archeology departments who want to tear up the garden looking for more of the ancient villa. One of the professors thinks that the stables were on the far side of the fountains, where there could be water for the horses and the waste could run away from the baths and the house instead of toward them. Very clever, those old Romans.”

“You aren’t going to let them do it, are you?” Cardinal Cadini protested. “This garden.…” For once, words failed him.

“It was destroyed in World War II and it’s reestablished itself,” said Leonie. “Gardening’s a hobby of mine.”

“Does that mean you will or you won’t allow the digging?” Cardinal Cadini persisted. “You can’t seriously intend to—”

“Not for a while, no,” Willie admitted. “We have to decide if we’re going to stay here; we’ll work out then what we intend to do with it.”

“There are other villas, and other gardens they can dig up,” said Cardinal Quillons. “This is a very pleasant place. It would be a shame to clutter it up with graduate students unearthing bits of pottery.”

“So it is, very pleasant,” agreed Willie at once. He rested one arm on the rim of the fountain, paying no heed to the water that splashed on his tweed jacket. “We don’t know yet how hard it might be to keep up. It’s almost two acres, the whole grounds and the house. It’s more than I’ve handled before. Up until now the most I’ve had to deal with was a large flat.”

“And I’ve always had a staff to help me,” said Leonie. “Here, I have Matteo for the heavy work and his wife Dorotea as housekeeper. Willie and I will be accountable for the rest of it. We haven’t done the summer weeding yet. The day may come when we’ll positively welcome the archaeologists.”

“If you do, you must photograph everything before they arrive,” said Cardinal Quillons. “That way it can be restored to just the way it was.” He rubbed his hands together. “It could keep you active for years.”

“If we haven’t anything better to do,” said Willie. “And speaking of something better to do, there is a luncheon waiting for us. I suspect you and the other guests are getting peckish.”

“How many others are invited for this luncheon?” asked Cardinal Phinees.

“We will be a total of fifteen when we sit down.” Willie said grandly. “We would have been sixteen if Cardinal Mendosa were back, but he’s still in Washington.”

“The Williamson trial, I suppose?” said Archbishop Wailua. “That’s all you can find on TV in Hawaii. Everyone having anything to do with the case has been interviewed. You can’t go anywhere they aren’t talking about it, especially since Cardinal Hetre was declared psychiatrically incompetent to testify.”

“Do you think they’ll convict him?” asked Cardinal Quillons, his tone revealing his own longing for a guilty verdict.

“I don’t see how they can fail to,” said Archbishop Wailua. “Between what Clancy McEllton said and the evidence that’s been presented, Reverend Williamson is responsible for the whole terrible plan.”

“Cardinal Mendosa was asked to give a statement regarding Cardinal Hetre. He’s been promised confidentiality.” Willie looked to Pope An, uncertain if he should go on. When he saw her nod, he continued, “The Department of Justice requested an American Cardinal because of the confrontational attitude Reverend Williamson’s followers have taken in regard to the Church. Bradeston didn’t want to, and Walgren was on Williamson’s side; in fact, he offered to testify for the defense, explaining the dilemma of the Church. Walgren has expressed sympathy with the confusion many Christians are feeling.”

“Not very wise of him,” murmured Cardinal Cadini. “No, it was not,” said Pope An.

“With the other Americans,” Willie went on, “Aquilino wouldn’t speak against a fellow Cardinal—meaning Hetre—and Durand is busy at the U.N. That left either you, Cardinal Quillons, or Cardinal Mendosa. You’ve haven’t had the job very long. Which meant the best choice was Cardinal Mendosa.”

“Besides, he’s had some dealings with President Carey,” said Cardinal Cadini. “There’s been a rapport established.”

“He went because I asked it of him,” said Pope An, settling the matter.

As they started back down the pathway through the tall, formal hedges and the fronts of artful grottos, Cardinal Cadini asked Pope An, “Have you reached a decision yet on South America? The governments are pressing for an answer. So is the U.N., so they can coordinate their work with your travels.”

She looked away, resigned. “I suppose it would be best to go. They’ve had so much upheaval there, and it seems not to be ended yet. The new government in Brazil needs support if it is going to make the reforms it promised, and the reforms are long overdue from what I have learned. They will also need money; we must find out how much and how they intend to spend it before we extend them the loan they have sought. And there are those men in Colombia, with their drug empires. They will be at war with each other in a few more years, instead of just shooting each other out of cars and blowing up individual houses.” Her expression grew more somber. “I should plan the trip for May and June. It will be winter south of the equator and there is a lower chance of riots in winter.”

“It could be very dangerous, Pope,” said Cardinal Cadini with real concern. “You’ve read Maetrich’s evaluation of the risks involved.”

“Yes,” she allowed. “I appreciate his intentions and I applaud his efforts, but I cannot permit him to make me a prisoner of the Church any more than I already am.” She looked at her two new Cardinals. “That is one of the reasons I have advanced you both. We require better balance in the Church. We need to behave as if we truly are Catholic—universal—as we claim, or we must abandon the name as misrepresentation.”

“Don’t even think it, Pope,” said Cardinal Cadini at once. “That’s one change no one would tolerate.”

“It would not be liked,” conceded Pope An.

“That’s the understatement of the age,” said Willie for all the others.

“But it would be true, and the Church has said that it strives to reach the truth.” She looked at the Archbishop. “You were recommended to me by Cardinal Tsukamara. He informs me that you are very diligent in your work and you are fair, which is high praise from him. He has also persuaded me that we have neglected our people in the Pacific. Cardinal Stevenson of Australia, Cardinal Semisse of Djakarta, Cardinal Benvenac of Tahiti, Cardinal Pingari of the Philippines, and now you, are all we have in the South Pacific since Cardinal Napier of Auckland died last year. Cardinal Tsukamara was right about you and the Pacific.” She stopped by a garden shrine. “Which saint is this?”

“Saint Francis, I think,” said Willie. “The shrine was rebuilt after the war; the statue was put in its shrine about 1650 according to the records in the local church. Though it could be older than Francis. It might not be a monk at all, of any order. There must have been garden statues when the Romans were here. You can see robed figures in many of these shrines; sometimes they’re left over from pagan times and Christianized.”

“I like to think it’s Ceres,” said Leonie. “The old Roman crop goddess. With those robes, you can’t tell what sex the figure is.”

Cardinal Quillons could not conceal his disapprobation. “How can you say that, Dame Leonie?”

“It’s happened often enough,” she answered, then bent and broke off a bud from a nearby bush and put it at the foot of the figure in the shrine. “Whoever you are, take care of the garden.”

Pope An smiled. “Perhaps it might be one of the Eight Immortals.” She also picked a bud and left it as an offering beside Leonie’s. “In which case, I would like it to be Lan Tsai-ho.”

“A Pope offering to a pagan deity?” said Willie with a grin, in case one of the new Cardinals might be offended by what Pope An had done.

“The Eight Immortals were known before your Jesus was born,” said Pope An calmly. “We have been taught to disregard these figures because they are not part of the Chinese way now. But most Chinese people continue to remember them, and to show them honor.”

“But no relics,” said Cardinal Cadini.

Pope An chuckled. “No, no relics.” She sensed the disquiet around her and took a lighter tone with the group. “Let us prepare for lunch. The other guests will be sizing you up, Cardinal Phinees. And especially you, Archbishop. They will want to see what you are like. They will try to find out where you stand so that they can enlist you in their cause.”

“Surely not during lunch,” said Cardinal Quillons.

“Most of all during lunch,” Cardinal Cadini stated. “These colleagues of yours might be soft-spoken men, yet they did not reach their positions through humility and inconspicuous good works. They are capable politicians, most of them, and they are always trying to find the most advantageous means to promote their own interests.” He smiled innocently at Archbishop Wailua. “Keep in mind that you are not from a powerful area. The Pacific has only recently become politically interesting to the Church in any practicable way. You will be the one they seek to sway the most because you have fewer men who will stand with you.”

“How cynical you are, Cardinal Cadini,” Leonie chided him.

“Not at all. I’ve been at the Vatican longer than most, and I know how things are done there. I would be failing in the trust of my congregation if I allowed myself to be dazzled by the institution and became the tool of those less gullible than I.” They were almost to the terrace now, and the scent of fresh rosemary and thyme struck them from the herb borders. “What a wonderful fragrance. The air makes me hungry.”

“Then come with me, Cardinal,” said Leonie, and reached to put her arm through Cardinal Cadini’s arm. “We’ll take the lead.”

“Charming, very charming,” said Cardinal Cadini, permitting Leonie to guide him up the steps and across the terrace.

“It’s not fitting that you take my arm, Pope,” said Willie, “but let me escort you, if I may.”

She nodded and fell into step beside him but walked slowly in order to have a few private words with Willie. “Did you happen to see the report from that fellow Attersee, from Interpol? The one who says that there is nothing to the threat that Cardinal Mendosa warned of?”

“Maetrich provided me a copy. We’re not supposed to have one, I know. But rest assured that I will not leak this to the press.”

“Do you think Maetrich expected you to?” asked Pope An.

“No, I don’t; and if he did, he chose the wrong reporter. I think it was because of the way Leonie dispatched Cardinal Gemme.” A line deepened between his brows. “It hasn’t been easy on her. There are still questions about Cardinal Gemme and…how she came to disable him.”

“I know; I’m sorry.” They were almost to the vaulted french doors. “What do you think of Attersee’s report? Maetrich does not agree with Attersee, but I understand that Interpol has decided to accept his evaluation.”

“I wish I were as confident as Lieutenant Attersee is. But I’m not convinced that the other conspiracies have worn the threat out for the time being, and that all those who took part in them have withdrawn from them.” He held the door for her, watching as the other guests rose in respect to her.

“We will talk later, if there is time.” She bowed to the guests, and then to her host and hostess. “You are all most gracious.”

Willie returned her bow, troubled that they had discussed so little and afraid that there would be few chances to discuss more between now and Easter.

“April twenty-third,” said Cardinal Mendosa to Cardinal Cadini as they prepared to join the austere procession to the Paschal High Mass on the morning of Easter Sunday. “Shakespeare was born on April twenty-third, probably.”

Cardinal Cadini showed a wry smile. “So was Hitler, I believe.” He tugged at his pectoral crucifix. “There may be Catholics around the world who miss the full alb and dalmatic and the rest of the vestments, but I, for one, am relieved that all we have to wear is our formal cassocks and sashes. We look less like drag queens this way.”

“Considering the rain, I wouldn’t mind a pluvial,” said Cardinal Mendosa. He glanced back along the line. “But we have a number of colleagues who still get dolled up, don’t we?” He indicated Cardinal Jung who was formally vested, and with him Cardinal Lepescu, also in full regalia.

“What do you expect of those two?” Cardinal Cadini said, dismissing them. “If Tondocello weren’t in hospital, he’d be like them.”

“Did you attend the Mass for him last night?” asked Cardinal Mendosa.

“Yes. There were almost fifty of us there. All but two of the Curia joined us, including the Prioress. Not that the news has been very encouraging.” He was too experienced to ask Cardinal Mendosa where he had been, and for that reason was a little taken aback then Cardinal Mendosa told him without being asked.

“I had to attend a meeting. It was private.”

“More about Reverend Williamson?” asked Cardinal Cadini, recovering himself with the grace born of long practice.

“No. It was about Pope An’s safety.” He wished he could tell Cardinal Cadini about his quick, furtive meeting with Martin Bell. The most recent discoveries of the KGB raised his anxiety higher than it had ever been before. It created resonances with his visions that were frightening. “I took the material to Maetrich and to Interpol. It’s got me rattled, I’ll tell you that. No comment from them thus far.” He had not found this silence reassuring.

“You are afraid, aren’t you?” asked Cardinal Cadini.

“I am,” said Cardinal Mendosa. How could he explain about his visions and the dread that had come with the rain as it began falling during the night? After all these years—decades—of silence, he had lost the skill to put into words the magnitude of the things he saw. With Cardinal Hetre under psychiatric care, what could he expect if he revealed what he had been seeing for so long a time?

“What is it, Charles?” whispered Cardinal Cadini.

“A bad case of the squeams.” It was the truth, as far as it went, but his apprehension had deeper roots than hyperactive nerves.

Toward the front of the procession, the newly created Keahi, Cardinal Wailua carried the tremendous jeweled crucifix. He was flanked by a choir of singing boys who were followed by a double row of Franciscan monks, chanting the ancient texts of Resurrection.

“Here we go,” said Cardinal Mendosa as the head of the long, long line started to move.

“Show time,” agreed Cardinal Cadini.

Behind the monks, Pope An walked. In a concession to the Curia for refusing to be carried in the Sedia Gestatoria—the portable, canopied Papal Throne—she wore the Papal tiara and a cope with an extended train, all embroidered in gold thread, seed-pearls and jewels. After her, much as medieval knights in another age had paraded after their lords, came the College of Cardinals and the members of the Curia Tribunals, Congregations and Offices who were not themselves Cardinals.

Saint Peter’s oval Square was filled with people in spite of the steady, unseasonable downpour. They craned their necks under their umbrellas and tried to see around the television cameras trained on the procession.

Within the basilica itself the crush was greater but at least the people gathered were dry. Now it was possible to hear the chants more clearly and to watch the gorgeous procession as they made their way toward the Papal Altar.

“Have you seen Maetrich?” Cardinal Mendosa whispered to Cardinal Cadini.

“Not this morning. How could I, in this crowd?” He had to repeat himself twice before Cardinal Mendosa heard him clearly.

They reached the places reserved for them, and knelt before the altar as Pope An took her place for the Mass.

Even with the truncations Pope An had mandated the year before, the Easter Mass promised to last well over an hour. The choir sang the ancient chants as well as the new setting of the Mass commissioned for this Easter. Because she was not ordained, Pope An appointed Cardinal Wailua and Cardinal Llanos to perform most of the ritual, reciting the liturgy in Italian, Spanish and English. They left the lesson to Pope An.

The reaction to her as she rose to address the enormous congregation was chaotic. Screams, catcalls, hoots, whistles, shouts, bravas, and applause greeted her as she faced them. When at last the noise diminished, she spoke.

“As I addressed the question of sin at the commemoration of the birth of your Jesus, so now in memory of His deliverance from death, I address the matter of virtue.” She had to wait, not only for the translators but for the reaction of the crowd.

“She talked about this at lunch, week before last,” Cardinal Cadini whispered to Cardinal Mendosa. “I thought she might be rehearsing for today.”

“I have given the matter close attention, and I fear that you have been suborned by those in authority to accept meanings of virtue that have no proper place in your understanding.” She looked over the College of Cardinals, her eyes pausing from time to time as she recognized her friends and enemies. “As you interpret sin as error, so you interpret virtue as rectitude, which does not seem accurate to me. As there are seven sins, so there are supposed to be seven virtues. Whatever their number may truly be, or how they are expressed, I am certain that many have lost sight of the truth of what virtue is.”

“Lord God deliver us,” murmured Cardinal Cadini.

Cardinal Mendosa could not say anything: he had heard her speak these words before, in many dreams.

“Your Jesus gave you a commandment—to love each other. This is not easily grasped by Chinese people, who assign a higher value to respect than to love. Yet your Jesus placed love above the rest and so it is my task to try to understand the reasons. Christians always speak a great deal about love, and extol it. But I have come to think that love which has no respect is not love at all, but another, less worthy emotion that serves to distort everything in life.”

There was a great deal of noise in reaction to this.

“You can’t say she hasn’t got their attention,” said Cardinal Cadini, knowing he would not be overheard in the wash of thousands of voices.

“No, you can’t,” said Cardinal Mendosa, his bones turning cold.

“In order to present how I reached this comprehension, I will speak of your seven virtues, and tell you how my reflections have revealed other aspects of these virtues.” She waited again while the noise died down.

“Here we go,” said Cardinal Mendosa. He would have felt better if his heart had been heavy. But he had seen this so often now that it was too familiar. It froze him in his place, as he had been frozen in his vision.

“Where you have been admonished to have courage,” said Pope An when the outcry abated, “I would want you to be steadfast, for courage is the province of those who do battle, and few of us undertake such fighting. What is needed of you to fulfill what your Jesus sought are reliability and the commitment to strive, not the willingness to fight. Where you have been admonished to chastity, I would want you to hold yourselves worthy of high regard, so that the blandishments and subtle threats of others cannot assail you, or confound you, and you will know where and how you may give yourself without compromise to yourself or another. Where you have been admonished to humility, I would ask you to have prudence. You have come to see humility as a willingness to be in the control of others. You mistake subservience for humility, and subservience is without judgment. Chinese people, when they speak of modesty, speak of one who places the need for action as neither less nor greater than the need for non-action. The modest person neither condescends nor deprecates, or trivializes. Therefore, take prudence as your model, and learn to be still in your hearts. Where you have been exhorted to honesty, I would ask you to maintain your integrity. Honesty is often the weapon of anger and the tool of the unprincipled person. If you maintain your integrity you will not deceive others, and will not be deceived yourselves. Where you have been required to be diligent, I would rather you persevere. Diligence is the mark of a sentry, not of a sensible person. A diligent person often justifies greed and anger through his diligence. Those who are diligent may not do much but remain perpetually guarded and distrustful. Learn instead to act in earnest, to persevere. Where you have been required to provide charity, I would request that you offer true comfort to those suffering. You Catholics speak of the coldness of charity, although it was intended by your Jesus as the manifestation of love. Therefore you must come to know love as what it is; provide comfort to those who are in need and you will set yourselves on the way to discovering the means to love. Where fidelity has been demanded of you, I would like to persuade you now to trust and loyalty instead. Fidelity binds you, but loyalty, if it is genuine, is the gift of the heart. And the trust of others is the highest honor the sensible person can aspire to gain. Learn if you can to give loyalty that comes of love instead of confining yourselves and one another in fidelity.”

The derisive shouts were louder, and so were the cheers. Around the edge of the nave, Vatican security men stood at the ready.

Pope An faced the cacophony tranquilly, her eyes bright with inner satisfaction and amusement.

Watching her, Cardinal Mendosa felt almost numb. Carefully he looked around, trying in vain to achieve now what he had been unable to accomplish in his visions. Very softly he began to pray, and could not make himself stop, although he knew his dream-self had done the same thing every night, and to no avail.

“Each of us has a duty to the rest, but the duty need not be an intrusion. If you truly embrace one another, as your Jesus asked that you should, it is not a burden to assist others, to take up your duty to humanity, it is a prerogative, for therein lies what you seek—your salvation.” She raised her hands and began to make the sign of the cross in blessing.

The shot came from the vicinity of the elaborate tomb of Pope Innocent VIII.

At the first, barely audible crack of fire, Cardinal Mendosa was released from the paralysis that held him. He stumbled out of his place and shoved Cardinal Cadini back as he—too late! too late!—tried to reach the altar. As he moved, he seemed to be slowed to nothing. He watched as the first bullet struck, tearing away half her jaw, her ear and most of her neck; blood pumped from the wound, the spray reaching the great pillars and the robed di Cambio statue of Saint Peter. He tried to yell but the sound took forever to come out of him.

The second bullet struck lower, spinning her around and flinging blood and shards of rib over the grandeur she wore. Delicately as a flower folding in on itself at twilight, she began to collapse.

Cardinal Mendosa was almost at the altar now, trying to put himself between her and the assassin. “Worthy Magistrate!” he shouted, unheard. “Zhuang Renxin!” He had seen it before, too many times, but he strove to make it untrue. As he ran, a great weight struck his back, lifted him and sent him sprawling to land, face down, in the first spread of her blood. He started to reach out to her and the pain struck.

Cardinal Llanos, more used to uprising and gunfire than Cardinal Wailua, reacted first. He started toward Pope An as she swayed, still upright; he was staring at the red spangles of blood on his vestments as if he could not recognize what it was. He saw Cardinal Mendosa knocked off his feet by the third shot, and this spurred him to action.

Then the enormous congregation, nearly ten thousand strong, immobilized by disbelief, began to panic, to react to the unimaginable thing they had witnessed. Screams and wailing filled the enormous building, the lamentation and baying triumph enlarged by the vault with echoes. A hurricane demolishing a coast sounded much the same as the interior of Saint Peter’s did.

The choirboy nearest the murdered Pope was sick.

A dozen Vatican security men, suddenly goaded by realization of what they had seen, rushed toward the tomb of Innocent VIII but were stopped by the crush of the people there, all of them trying to reach the man who clung to the figures on the tomb. His rifle was nowhere in sight.

Cardinal Cadini sat very still as he watched Cardinal Llanos kneel beside Pope An, not daring to touch her, knowing it was useless. He stared at his Texan friend, lying still with a bloody wound high in his back. Someone ought to stop the bleeding, he thought distantly, and rocked as Cardinal Bakony stumbled past him. He began to pray, then faltered as he realized he had been saying the same three words over and over.

Between a quarter and a third of the people gathered in the basilica had knelt to pray, most of them pale with shock. A few looked as if they had fainted. The rest were either trying to reach the Papal Altar for a closer, more horrifying look, or attempting to bolt from the building. Outside in Saint Peter’s Square a keening had begun.

From his place at the Papal Altar, Cardinal Wailua shouted and gestured to the Swiss Guards standing in the right transept. “Ambulance!” he bellowed, and moved nearer the altar steps, hoping to keep them from being over-run.

Nine Vatican security officers, with Axel Maetrich at their head, pushed and battered their way toward the altar, reaching their goal in time to stop all but two people from taking bits of bloodstained cloth from the clothes of the fallen Pope. Others were holding out handkerchiefs, trying to obtain a few of the precious drops for themselves.

In the turmoil, no one heard the pistol-shot; only the sudden uproar as the assassin fell from his perch.

“For God’s sake, cover her up,” whispered Maetrich as he stared down at Pope An’s body.

“And the Cardinal? I checked his pulse, he’s still alive,” said Ludovico Raccolto, who had shoved his way through the confusion to assist him. “Just barely, but alive.”

“Get him out of here. Use one of the side-entrances. Now.” He motioned to the Swiss Guards who had reluctantly climbed the steps of the Papal Altar. “Help him.”

“Right away,” said the tallest of the Swiss Guards, grateful to have a reason to move away from the carnage.

Raccolto tapped Maetrich on the shoulder. “The assassin shot himself. At least that’s what they’re saying. He’s dead.”

Maetrich’s expletive was in German and utterly condemning. “Better get the body before they tear it to pieces,” he said, watching as the Swiss Guards did their best to lift the unconscious Cardinal Mendosa from the steps. “I want a full autopsy on the assassin.” His tone grew harsher. “And I want a thorough investigation to begin immediately. Track down everyone and anyone associated with the assassin. I want names by midnight. No press.”

“Of course,” said Raccolto, then looked down at the body of Pope An just as Cardinal Llanos brought the robes from the statue of Saint Peter and draped them over her, covering the ruin of her face.

Cardinal Cadini had come to the foot of the Papal Altar; slowly he climbed the shallow steps, paying no heed to the tumult and distress around him. He looked once at Maetrich as if asking permission, then knelt, heedless of the spreading blood beside Pope An, pulling back the robes that covered her face long enough to begin the rites for the dead.

Epilogue

Below in Saint Peter’s Square an altar had been set up for the celebration of the Feast of Saint Jude. It was against all the recommendations of Vatican Security, the Swiss Guard, the Eurocops and Interpol; in the year and a half since the assassination of Pope An the public events permitted at the Vatican had been scaled down severely. This gesture of the former Vitale Benedetto Cadini was viewed as inexcusably risky, an assessment which amused him.

Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung, his petulant baby’s-face now constantly ruddy, stood in the window of the reception room where the press would gather after the Mass, in the company of a dozen other Cardinals who would be part of those answering questions for the Church. “It’s bad enough that he took the name of Jude. Jude! What sort of name is that for a Pope? It was not correct of him to use such a name for his reign.”

“It was his decision to make,” said Cardinal van Hooven, not bothering to look up from the newspaper he was reading.

“Jude was an apostle,” Cardinal Llanos reminded Cardinal Jung, pleased when the rotund Swiss swung around and glared at him.

“It was disrespectful,” Cardinal Jung insisted.

“And what if it was?” Cardinal Mendosa grabbed the wheels of his chair and rolled toward the windows; the bullet he had taken in his efforts to save Pope An had left him a paraplegic. His hair was white. “It was still Cadini’s right to choose the name.” His paralyzed legs were held in place with a wide leather belt just above the knees; he continued to wear his cowboy boots. He had returned to the Vatican less than a month before, after surgery and prolonged physical therapy.

“You would defend him. You defend all disruption.” Cardinal Jung had difficulty looking at Cardinal Mendosa, as he had looking at anyone with obvious physical problems.

“Someone has to,” said Cardinal Mendosa, and moved a little nearer so that he could see what was going on below. “We cling too much to the past.”

Cardinal Jung moved away from the window, his portly body stuffed with disapproval. He directed his steps toward the far side of the room where Cardinal O’Higgins occupied himself with crossword puzzles. He halted near the Mexican, his manner portentous. “O’Higgins. Are you planning to attend the Mass? Would you want—”

“Yes,” said Cardinal O’Higgins in a tone of voice that encouraged no further conversation.

With a contemptuous sniff, Cardinal Jung selected a chair some distance from the rest. “I do not know,” he said to no one in particular, “how you can promote such a foolish venture as this Mass. His Holiness ought to listen to the advice of those whose work it is to protect him.”

“He has listened,” said Cardinal Mendosa, equally indirectly. “And he has chosen to ignore them. Pope Jude is permitted to have his own opinion, isn’t he? or aren’t interim Popes supposed to have opinions? If all you wanted him to do was keep Saint Peter’s seat warm, you chose the wrong man.”

“Stop it, both of you,” said Cardinal van Hooven at his mildest, still caught up in his book. “This isn’t the time or the place. If you two want to sling insults, do it where it will trouble no one but yourselves. Do not bring your private rancor to this occasion.”

Cardinal Jung pulled a small book of essays by Benedictine monks from a pocket concealed in his cassock and made a point of reading.

After watching out the window for another ten minutes, Cardinal Mendosa rolled toward Cardinal van Hooven. He set the brakes on his wheels and turned toward the little Dutchman. “You’re right about arguing; sometimes I can’t help it,” he admitted, then said more softly, “I never thanked you for what you and…your friend did.”

“It isn’t necessary. The men responsible have been arrested and will be punished. Their South American backers are known and discredited. That is thanks enough.” His sternness did not reach his eyes, which were filled with sympathy. “You did more than any of us.”

“It wasn’t enough,” said Cardinal Mendosa with a sigh. There were days he still felt responsible for Zhuang’s death, no matter what his visions revealed to the contrary. “Let him know what he did is appreciated. I’ve tried to do it, but I can’t find anyone who.… With Professor Bell back at Stanford, I have no…direct route to him to do it myself”

“I’ll convey your message,” said Cardinal van Hooven with the suggestion of a smile. “He could use a good word or two, these days.”

“Are things as bad for him as they’re saying in the newsmedia?” Cardinal Mendosa asked.

“They are very likely worse. This most recent change of upper government has already brought down Anatoly Sava, though they’ve managed to keep that quiet. This new group of men could easily make the same decision about others. They’re a very knowing lot, most of them, with international experience.” He folded his newspaper and looked Cardinal Mendosa directly in the eyes. “I’ve told him that we will be at his disposal if he requires our assistance.”

“Did he have anything to say to that? Did he want anything?” Cardinal Mendosa inquired, aware that two of the other Cardinals in the room were half-listening to them.

“Actually, he did. He asked if you could contact your brother-in-law on his behalf.” He gave Cardinal Mendosa a few seconds to consider his answer. “I hope you’ll be willing to do this for him.”

“After the information he supplied? You bet. There’s no way to pay what I owe him. I’d go and carry him out on this contraption if that’s what he wanted.” He slapped the arms of his wheelchair.

“I don’t think he’ll require that,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “Or I hope he won’t.”

“For his sake or mine?” asked Cardinal Mendosa lightly. He pressed his hands on the arms of his chair and adjusted how he sat. “I wonder, sometimes, what might have happened if I had let well enough alone? What if I hadn’t gone to China? What if we’d gone ahead and elected someone else?”

“There is no way to live a life twice, Charles,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “You did what you believed was the best thing.”

“The will of the Holy Spirit. It was so clear when we elected her twice. But she died, and for something that wasn’t hers to die for,” said Cardinal Mendosa, a deep, hidden pain in his eyes.

“Are you sure of that? You, of all people?” Cardinal van Hooven had lowered his voice so that the rest could not eavesdrop. He paused. “You know better than all of us.”

Cardinal Mendosa rounded on him, his face suddenly pale. “What do you mean by that?”

“Why, nothing,” said Cardinal van Hooven with grave innocence. “Only that you had more opportunity to know her than most of the rest of us. You found her. You convinced her.”

“More fool me,” muttered Cardinal Mendosa.

“She was willing to do the work, Charles. You didn’t force her, and you certainly didn’t tell her what to do or say.” He let this gentle prompting work its charm. “You have no reason to suppose she regretted coming here.”

“But she was killed,” protested Cardinal Mendosa, haunted by his responsibility in her murder.

“And that could happen to her no place but here?” inquired Cardinal van Hooven. “No one was ever killed in China?”

“I didn’t say that,” Cardinal Mendosa growled. “I knew she would be in danger here.”

“Were you so certain?” Cardinal van Hooven did not look directly at Cardinal Mendosa but directed his gaze to a spot over the Texan’s right shoulder about halfway down the room. “You knew she might not be popular, and that she would not have the general approval of Catholics everywhere. But you speak as if you were aware of something much more specific. You’re behaving as if you knowingly brought her into danger. Isn’t that hindsight, because of all the conspiracies?”

“No!” said Cardinal Mendosa with heat, and put his hand to his mouth as the others in the room turned to stared at him.

“What about the others? What about Cardinal Walgren and Archbishop Fuentes? Do you feel responsible for their imprisonment and upcoming sentencing? You surely aren’t upset about breaking the backs of the four cartels, are you?” He kept his voice just above a whisper, loud enough for Cardinal Mendosa to hear, but softly enough to remind the others that their conversation was private.

“Talk about such things we should save for later,” said Cardinal Mendosa.

“Let’s talk about it now, anyway,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “There’s time before the Mass.” He looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes before we must leave this room.”

“Jesus and Mary, Piet, you’re worse than a trail-drive ramrod.” He shifted his position in the wheelchair again. “Okay, okay. What the hell.” He leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling murals. “You know damn well I don’t feel bad about Walgren and Fuentes. Shit, I feel great about the drug lords. I try to sympathize with them, to have compassion for them, and all I can think of is that they killed her because she was a woman who would not tolerate their privateering. They hated her for being a woman and for changing the Church, but they killed her because they were afraid she’d find out about the money they were making off the gangs they had supposedly reformed; it was so petty a reason. They were using the Church to promote the worst kinds of crimes, which is nothing new, historically. That offends me, nevertheless. But to kill her because of their own fear that her reforms would make it harder to hide what they were doing.… The only thing that gets to me is that I didn’t spot them sooner. I thought that if it was any of them, it had to be the Latin Americans, not someone like Walgren and Fuentes, no matter how they talked about Pope An. I keep saying they were too obvious, that I didn’t think anyone with such obvious malice could possibly be part of a real conspiracy.”

Cardinal van Hooven accepted this readily. “And what about Reverend Williamson? Do you think you did the wrong thing in testifying against him? because it was your testimony that put the seal on Cardinal Hetre’s psychiatric detention.”

“That doesn’t bother me. Dominique Hetre needs psychiatric detention if anyone ever did.” He shook his head for emphasis. “He tried to find it in the Church, after all.”

“And your visions? What about them?” He asked the questions quickly and very quietly.

Cardinal Mendosa jerked in his chair. Then he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Cardinal van Hooven made a gesture of dismissal. “It’s in your records, Charles. Well-hidden and buried, but it’s there. Half a dozen episodes in youth, and then a history of nightmares and prophetic dreams. You’re feeling guilty because you followed a vision. You did something quite irrational. At the time you didn’t question it, but now—That’s it, isn’t it?”

“I…it’s not what you think,” he said, looking around furtively, afraid now that they were overheard.

“I think you’re a visionary, Charles.” Cardinal van Hooven reached into the rack beside the chair and drew out the latest issue of Oggi. “So does our new Pope Jude. He’s said you had the talent for years. He suspected it was one of the reasons the old guard dislikes you—you could see through them, to use that very American expression.”

“God, I hope he hasn’t blabbed it all over,” said Cardinal Mendosa in an undervoice.

“You would have known it long before now if he had,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “Sometime—it needn’t be at once, you understand—I’d like to know more about it.”

“Maybe,” said Cardinal Mendosa, and released the brakes on his wheelchair, rolling back toward the windows to watch the gathering crowd. “It’s too bad,” he said, his voice a bit louder than conversational, “that they have to take so many security measures now. I don’t like having to send worshippers and tourists through metal and plastic detectors.”

Cardinal Bakony, who had made a point of not listening to the conversation between Cardinal van Hooven and Cardinal Mendosa, made a second point by joining him by the window. “We’ve grown accustomed to them in airports and train stations,” he said. “In fact, to be truthful, I’m relieved that they have them in airports and train stations.”

“And here?” asked Cardinal Mendosa.

“Not as much,” said Cardinal Bakony, “but that’s my pride speaking, not my good sense. I am cognizant of the risks we have attempted to ignore. We ignore them no longer. Such prudence. I would never want to have another such tragedy touch the Church the way that one did.” He put his hands behind his back and pursed his lips. “If my pride must take a bruise or two in order to make such a disaster unlikely, then I will count myself and the Church lucky.”

“Yes,” said Cardinal Tsukamara, looking up from his Japanese printouts for the first time, “Dreadful as her murder and your wound were, I have been grateful that day was no worse than it was. When I heard that shot, I feared at first there were several terrorists in the congregation and that the people would be sprayed with bullets, or worse.”

“Or worse,” agreed Cardinal O’Higgins.

Cardinal Jung could stand no more of this. He stumped back to the window. “It was no more than we deserved, having desecrated the Church with her presence.”

“Shut up, Sylvestre,” warned Cardinal Mendosa.

But Cardinal Jung was not impressed by the threat. “You were the worst of the lot, foisting her on us. You and your hunt for her, as if you sought the Grail. You showed her reverence worthy of a savior. You spoke of her as if she was the choice of the Holy Spirit because of that travesty of two elections. And then you behaved as if she—a Chinese woman, a Communist—was the Second Coming.”

There was an odd light in Cardinal Mendosa’s face as he stared down Cardinal Jung. When the Swiss dropped his eyes, Cardinal Mendosa asked him very gently, “What makes you think she wasn’t?”

THE END

For more excellent e-books by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, visit our website: http://www.hidden-knowledge.com

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 As he set the nib of his pen on the vellum, Ottone, Cardinal Folgar, was possessed by a strange dizziness; there was a whiteness behind his eyes, light that was more than light, a fluttering of breath, a sense that something hovered over him, a moment that was suspended in eternity. Then it was gone and he passed a shaking hand across his brow, murmuring thanks to God that He had chosen to leave him on earth a little longer. How ironic, he thought in the next instant as he touched the crucifix that hung on his breast, if he died now, while the Cardinals were gathered in conclave to choose a new Pope: a new Pope for the second time in three years, and with the millennium fast approaching, bringing with it a religious fervor Cardinal Folgar had not encountered before in his lifetime. From inclination as much as habit the Cardinal still prayed in Latin, relishing the tolling cadences he had mastered as a child. Now the familiar liturgy took his mind off the peculiar, brief episo

Chapter 2 “Habemus Papam!” came the glorious announcement to the assembled faithful in the oval-shaped plaza below. An answering cheer went up, and the thousands flocked more tightly toward the balcony where the news was given. In the splendid Latin phrases—one of the few remaining rituals in the ancient tongue—it was proclaimed to the world that Ottone, Cardinal Folgar of Verona would reign as Celestine VI. Again there were cheers, interspersed with a few derisive whistles, for Cardinal Folgar was an outspoken and staunch conservative who was not as popular as some of the Cardinals. In general the new Pope was greeted enthusiastically, for he had always stood firm against the radical elements in the Church, and for the traditional values of family and Catholicism. “I sure hope we know what we’re doing,” Cardinal Mendosa whispered as the international press closed in for the story. He had dreamed again that night and what he had seen still troubled him. “What do you think about the new

Chapter 3 Over his morning coffee Fitzwilliam Ellery Jocelin Foot reviewed the notes he had made during the last few days. He had not yet shaved and his robe was knotted loosely over his pyjama-bottoms. The sunlight coming in through the tall windows made his dining table glisten where it was not strewn with papers. Beyond his small balcony Rome was warming up in heat and noise. When the phone rang he retrieved it from the alcove and sat down once more. “Pronto,” he said as he answered. “Willie,” said Cardinal Mendosa, his Texas accent at its strongest. “Are you going to be in for a while?” “I can be,” Willie Foot answered, trying not to reveal the excitement he felt from the call. “I have to go out around eleven-thirty.” “I’ll be there before then,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “I won’t keep you long. Promise.” “Is this about the recessing of the conclave?” Willie inquired as innocently as he could; every journalist in the world was trying to get a story on the astonishing announcement that

Chapter 4 When the report came back to Jivin, Cardinal Tayibha, he heard it with a sinking heart. As soon as the priest in Nepal concluded giving his apologetic news, Cardinal Tayibha did his best to assuage the worst fears. “Father Hastin, you have done your work well. I am impressed with what you have been able to achieve in so little time. Few would have been as diligent as you have been. That you were not able to discover the identity of the man we seek in China is no cause for blame. Or for guilt. You have done more than anyone in the Church to discover who this man is, and you have done it with dispatch and without questioning the reason for the search.” Father Hastin, the Cardinal knew, had been a priest for little more than three years and was still caught up in the newness of his work, and in the need to prove his worth. “There was only the slimmest chance that you could have found the man. God asks the impossible of us only when He performs a miracle.” “But there was no reaso

Chapter 5 Fourteen Cardinals sat together in a corner of the diplomats’ lounge adjoining Saint Peter’s. Each of them stared at Charles, Cardinal Mendosa. Nine of them could not believe they had heard right. “A Chinese widow?” Cardinal Gemme asked. “There isn’t some mistake? Mightn’t that be her son’s name? Or another…relative?” “No children, according to the report. And no living male relatives with a personal name like Renxin. It was male relatives you’re asking about, isn’t it?” said Cardinal Mendosa, reading the page he held though he had memorized the information there. “But a widow,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “It is…difficult enough that this Zhuang is a woman, but a widow.…” His pale, magnified eyes were bleary. “It was bad before. This is very…awkward.” Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme gazed at the enormous Bernini sculpture on the other side of the room. “Does Jung know? Do any of the other reactionaries? Or those who aren’t…affiliated?” “Not yet; not that I know of,” Cardinal Mendosa

Chapter 6 It was fifteen minutes before the appointed hour when Clancy McEllton arrived at the little grove just off the main equestrian trail in the park. He looked innocuous enough—looking innocuous was his stock-in-trade—as he strolled past the designated bench four times, apparently enjoying the flowers. When he was satisfied that he was not being set up, he strolled a quarter of a mile down the lane, then came back toward the appointed place at a comfortable amble, his unmemorable features set in a curious half-smile; he rather enjoyed being back in the field again after three inactive years; and the money had piqued his interest, he could not deny it. A man sat on the bench now, a tall, thin fellow between forty and fifty with a nervous tick in his cheek. He cleared his throat as McEllton sat down. “It’s…uh…to o nice for rain tonight.” He said the code as if he were a sixth grader forced to recite in class. His accent was faintly southern U.S., but McEllton did not know the State

Chapter 7 “Why would a journalist be traveling with a member of the clergy of the Roman Catholic Church?” The military officer asking the question still held all of Willie Foot’s documents in his hand, though he had returned Charles Mendosa’s to him. “I speak Chinese and Mendosa does not,” said Willie promptly, glad that he could offer the truth as an explanation. “I have served as a translator for him before this journey. There was a Catholic meeting, you will recall, on Asian issues in Manila, which I covered, and where I was able to assist Cardinal Mendosa. As it happens, I was on assignment in Rome when he decided to make this trip, and he asked me to accompany him.” “And why is it that this journey was not arranged through proper diplomatic channels?” the officer inquired. It was quite warm in the characterless roadside building where the army had stopped them. There was a pervasive odor of machine oil still on the air. He looked from Willie to Mendosa. “And why is the churchman n

Chapter 8 “They should reach Hongya by afternoon, probably after three,” the man reported to Dmitri Karodin. “They’ve had to detour around some road construction, and it is raining. If the weather had stayed clear, they would have been there by now.” “I see,” said Karodin, pulling thoughtfully at his lower lip. He had sent two of his secretaries out of the office and disconnected his recorder, for he wanted nothing official to remain of this conversation. It was quite early in Moscow and the sun was valiantly striving to penetrate the dense high clouds which gathered over the city. “Has anyone attempted to contact them? Anyone at all?” “Not that we have noticed. There is no mention of such attempts in any of the reports we have received.” He cleared his throat. “We have not had time to question those they have spoken with yet, but—” “I am certain the People’s Republic would know if there had been such an attempt,” Karodin said, cutting him off. “What about the Chinese press? Mendosa is

Chapter 9 Shortly before dawn a telephone call on his private line woke Zuo Nangkao in his Beijing home. He moved away from his sleeping wife and lifted the receiver. In Hongya the monitor from the People’s Cooperative Fire Emergency Resources peered over his notes. “I took pictures and—” “Do you know what was said?” Premier Zuo interrupted, aware that his field agent was good at his job. “Could you get close enough?” “No, but they talked well into the night. Magistrate Zhuang made sure there was a chaperon, of course. She is a very prudent woman.” He cleared his throat and lit another cigarette. “The driver left for a while in the evening and returned with food.” “There are places in Hongya where he must have gone,” said Premier Zuo, unwilling to be drawn into useless speculation. “What more can you tell me?” “The foreigners are going to sleep at her neighbor’s house. They are supposed to leave in the morning. Probably not too early because they were up so very late.” He chuckled unpl

Chapter 10 By the time Cardinal Mendosa’s plane was leaving Hong Kong, word had spread through the upper echelons of the Catholic Church with the determination of a wildfire in a garbage dump—the infuriating Texan had actually done what he had set out to do. “And he was not stopped or questioned or detained? The Chinese authorities actually let him approach this woman?” demanded Cardinal Jung when he heard the news. “Why didn’t they forbid him to speak with her? Why wasn’t he turned back at the border? He’s a Cardinal! He’s an enemy of the People, in their eyes. They’re probably right, in his case.” “No,” said Cardinal Bradeston when he could get a word in. “Aside from some routine questions given to foreigners, they let him go. I spoke to him earlier today, on scrambler. They were not bothered coming or going.” Around them the small, Asian-style garden was coming in full growth, the newest addition to the Vatican gardens. “Then she will be questioned. You may be sure of it. Small wond

Chapter 11 An argument camouflaged as a discussion was taking place in the Cardinal’s private reading room in the Vatican library; it had begun shortly before midnight, and now, nearly two hours later, showed no sign of abating. Cardinal Gemme and Cardinal Jung had squared off early and were still throwing dogma and precedents at each other, seconded or decried by about thirty of their fellows. None of them admitted they were waiting for word from China. Charles, Cardinal Mendosa did not find this bickering amusing, and, after an hour of it, had left for his own quarters. He admitted being restless, though he was utterly convinced that Zhuang Renxin would agree to reign as Pope. He knelt at his prie-dieu, making no effort to block the visions that had crowded his mind all day. It was a relief to experience them, for denying their existence was a greater strain than perceiving them. Even the one vision that troubled him the most, that ended in confusion and tremendous light, did not ups

Chapter 12 It was windy in The Hague, and Gunnar Hvolsvollur was still trying to restore order in his pale hair as he came into the meeting room. “I must apologize for being late,” he said in English. Vitale, Cardinal Cadini beamed at him and responded in the same tongue, “In such weather it is not surprising that it takes time to get from place to place. I was told that tree branches have blown down in a few places.” He was in a business suit and for once wore his two lapel pins. “I am very pleased that you have been willing to speak with me.” Gunnar Hvolsvollur nodded uncomfortably. “I was told you had been ill. I trust your health is better.” The inquiry was little more than a delaying tactic while he sized up the charismatic Cardinal Cadini; he looked around the small conference room. “Who else will be here?” “Just you and I, Mister Secretary-General,” said Cardinal Cadini. “And thank you for your kindness: I am recovering very well for a man of my age.” The Icelandic Secretary-Gen

Chapter 13 Dominique, Cardinal Hetre could not bring himself to use his voice at all. The softest whisper would join with his intolerable headache to shatter his skull, he was certain of it. He knelt in the little chapel, one of the tiny Renaissance jewel-boxes which were tucked into odd angles of the Vatican. He had been there for well over an hour, unable to speak the words he wanted to address to God, dreading what the sound would do to him. The tolling of distant bells had been agonizing; his own voice would be more than he could bear. Reluctantly he crossed himself and rose, arm out to steady himself, for dizziness went through him as he stood up. The faint squeak of his shoes on the marble floor seemed a series of small, fragmenting explosions. As he reached the wide hall, he made himself walk directly, with purpose, ignoring the throb in his temples. Thank God, he thought, finding no blasphemy in such expression, that the Vatican had been closed to tourists since the announcemen

Chapter 14 The wind off the fields smelled green and the sky was paled by thin, high clouds when the four cars pulled up in front of Magistrate Zhuang’s house. The government escort attracted the attention of the people in the fields less than the rangy American and the tall, lean Brit. “Don’t look now, Charles,” said Willie, “But we’re being goggled at.” He lifted one hand in what could have been a half-hearted wave: no one in the fields waved back. “I wonder how much they know about what’s going on?” “My guess is they’re probably curious to know why their Magistrate has been given an exit visa. Maybe they’re hoping to find out who they’re going to get in her place. And don’t doubt they know she’s leaving and someone else will be Magistrate here.” He turned to their driver and thanked him in his rudimentary Chinese. As he looked up at the house, he felt intense awe, as if the force of Zhuang Renxin had increased during the time they had been gone. “Do you think she’s home?” “If she’s

Chapter 15 At the conclusion of morning Mass, Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung hastened out of the Vatican in order to meet with Cardinal Hetre and some unknown associate of his in a place where they would not be noticed. Although he did not like wearing secular garments, he had made grudging concession to Cardinal Hetre’s request that he take care not to be conspicuous. His business suit was undertaker-charcoal and his shirt was dull, pale mauve. He had chosen a tie of dark-grey-and-mulberry. He had used only one of his permitted lapel pins, which rankled as he rode in a taxi toward the prearranged destination. The driver took to the road with gusto, charging through narrow streets and narrower distances between other vehicles with an insouciant smile and a negligent hand caressing the steering wheel, as if traffic was the last thing on his mind. He had tried a few remarks to his imposing passenger, then shrugged and sang quietly to himself as he headed for the Forum. He decided that his taci

Chapter 16 About an hour before dawn Dominique, Cardinal Hetre woke from troubled sleep. He sat up in bed, propping his five feather pillows behind him. He did not want to summon assistance, for he knew what his staff thought about these episodes—it was the same thing they thought about his headaches. He had heard them discussing his health, complaining that the Cardinal fancied himself an invalid. The worst of the lot was Father Gamba from Toronto, who made no secret of his opinion. Cardinal Hetre crossed himself and attempted to pray, but he could think of nothing to say to God Who had so bitterly disappointed him. After a short while, he began to address Mary, God’s Mother, perpetually Virgin. For the first time the phrase sounded ludicrous. He had never questioned dogma before, not seriously, but now the concept of a woman who had given birth to a child, no matter how miraculously conceived, afterwards remaining perpetually virgin struck him as absurd. No woman could make such a cl

Chapter 17 It was impossible to reach the Vatican by road. Tens of thousands of Catholics, non-Catholics, anti-Catholics, the crazed and the curious had turned out to catch a glimpse of the woman from China. Several vocal minorities shouted slogans against the new Pope, calling her Antichrist and Whore of Babylon, Communist and Subversive. A few smaller, more respectful groups staged demonstrations of support, a contingent of nuns going so far as to celebrate a Mass at the base of Castel’ Sant’ Angelo; the break-away group that claimed the right of succession to the Throne of Saint Peter for themselves sang the Requiem. Others recited prayers in Latin and admonished sincere Catholics to turn away from revisionist policies and irreligious practices which had made the Church a puppet in godless hands. Thieves of all sorts took advantage of this marvelous opportunity. The newsmedia gobbled it all and asked for more. Not everyone approved of this exploitation, but those who objected were i

Chapter 18 A few minutes after two in the morning three white-and-blue EECPA helicopters came fluttering over Rome from the north. They were no different than any other Eurocop helicopters, and very few people paid much notice of them, if they were aware of them at all. Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung stood in full diplomatic regalia at the entrance to the garden, surrounded by Vatican security. A few were obvious in their Swiss Guard uniforms, but most were in inconspicuous clothing; they were armed and efficient. Cardinal Jung despised them all on theological grounds almost as adamantly as he insisted on them for pragmatic reasons. He squinted up at the approaching helicopters. Some distance away there was a knot of priests with Dominique, Cardinal Hetre and Vincent, Cardinal Walgren, all of them trying to restrain the excitement and curiosity that consumed them. Everyone was speaking and hardly anyone was heard. “Is the entire reception committee here?” asked one of the senior security men

Chapter 19 “But, Your Holiness,” protested Bishop Flanders, who had been given the task of coordinating the Coronation Mass, “it is essential that you wear the tiara at all times.” He had got up from the couch in the small sitting room of the quarters she had been assigned. There were nuns billeted on both sides of her, and a Swiss Guard in the hall, to prevent any sort of scandal. There was also an unobtrusive security camera in the northwest corner of the room. “Do not call me Your Holiness,” said Zhuang, motioning to Willie Foot to assist her. “If you insist on such a name, it must wait until the ceremony is concluded.” “If you wish,” Bishop Flanders muttered, glancing at Willie Foot as the journalist translated. She studied Bishop Flanders’ face, aware of his disapprobation. “I do not like the tiara. It is heavy and ostentatious. If you must put it on my head, then take it off as soon as possible.” Bishop Flanders had been a bad-tempered little boy and at his confirmation had sworn

Chapter 20 Every bell in Rome was ringing. The clamor was so enormous that even the steady drone of traffic was lost in it. On the balcony overlooking Saint Peter’s Square, Zhuang Renxin, dressed in a plain white satin cassock, stood with her arms upraised as she faced the mass of humanity crammed into the piazza below. She wore no tiara but she carried a tall crucifix, her only concession to the symbols of Papal authority. Five Cardinals stood beside her, all in finery greater than hers. At her side, Willie Foot waited in a cut-away coat and striped trousers, for all the world like a groom on a wedding cake. In deference to Pope An, he carried his silk hat instead of wearing it. "I am asked,” said Pope An in Chinese, pausing so that Willie and a dozen or so others could translate, “to pronounce God’s blessing on the city of Rome and the world. Because it is a tradition, I will do it, but reluctantly, for nowhere in the writings about Jesus does it say He ever pronounced such a blessin

Chapter 21 Dame Leonie looked tired from her long flight, but Willie hardly noticed. As soon as they reached his apartment, he shoved the door closed and pulled her into his arms. He held her for some time before he kissed her, convincing himself that this was no longer his overactive imagination at work, but Leonie herself; he did not need to dream of her any longer. Their kiss was complex, leaving both of them light-headed. “It must be jet lag,” whispered Leonie, unwilling to move out of his arms. “Is jet lag contagious?” Willie asked fondly. “God, it is wonderful to have you here.” He was horrified at how banal that sounded. He wanted to summon every loving word he had ever learned, entwine them all in wreaths of poetry for her; he did not know they were all in the way he spoke her name. “Leonie.” She snuggled closer to him. “You don’t know how many times I’ve had to stop myself getting on a plane and coming here. Don’t bother to tell me how foolish that is.” He kissed her brow. “Al

Chapter 22 Vitale, Cardinal Cadini was the first to laugh, and he laughed hugely, leaning back in his chair and wiping his eyes. “Oh, dear,” he said when he was able to speak. “You are going to cause an uproar, Your Holiness.” Pope An surveyed the gathering of fifteen Cardinals. “Any more uproar than my selection for this position has caused already?” “Yes, indeed,” said Cardinal Stevenson, who had not been able to bring himself to laugh along with Cardinal Cadini. He did his best to explain, all the while glaring at Cardinal Cadini from the corner of his eye. “Your election is within the purview of dogma and doctrine, but this…this strikes at the heart of all that—” “A decision made more than a thousand years after the beginning of this Church,” said Pope An at her most reasonable. “It was a political decision made by a Pope. Jesus said nothing about it. And therefore the order is subject to reversal. We are not in those barbarian times and the Church need not bind itself to judgments

Chapter 23 “Why is it,” asked Cardinal Mendosa as he strolled up to Martin Bell in the Piazza Venezia, “that every time you contact me, you won’t allow me to include our mutual friend Vitale in our conversations?” Bell hesitated, his smile slipping a bit at the corners. “I wasn’t aware that you wanted him to.…” He left this hanging. “That I wanted him to know that his Hungarian-American colleague is working with the KGB? And that I am sending regular reports to Dmitri Karodin?” asked Cardinal Mendosa sharply, watching for Bell’s reaction. “Yes,” said Bell with as much self-containment as he could muster. Cardinal Mendosa nodded. “You’re afraid that his famed liberality doesn’t extend that far.” He shoved his hand into his pocket where he had put his lapel pin. “I suppose you’re right. Hell, I’m dead sure you’re right. But I would like it if there were someone—other than you, yourself, Professor Bell—who knew. This isn’t the kind of thing I tell my Confessor, not these days. It’d be on

Chapter 24 “Now tell me, Mendosa,” said Zhuang as she faced her friend across her study. “How is it that there are such major discrepancies in what you refer to as Scripture? I have examined several versions of the same texts and I can see that no one is in total agreement about the material and its interpretation.” “No dispute, Worthy Magistrate. You’re right,” said Mendosa in his best Chinese. “Scripture as we know it is a translation of a translation of a translation of a translation of a translation. Even the Gospel of Thomas has to be translated for most of us. But it’s the best we Catholics have to offer. The same is true for all Christians.” “I’m not favorably impressed,” said Zhuang. “Why has care not been taken?” “Oh, it has,” Mendosa assured her. “But times change, and so does language. What one language says easily, another says clumsily or not at all, and then the translator must choose which word is closest in meaning. Along with the trouble with translation, there’s the m

Chapter 25 For most of the night Cardinal Mendosa had been enveloped in glorious light. He had watched as Zhuang had lifted her arms to Heaven and become refulgent; he had been consumed with the joy of it, and the splendor. It had been vexing to awaken, to leave behind that glimpse of celestial bliss. He went about his first prayers with mechanical correctness, all the while longing to be once again surrounded by his vision. Willie Foot found him at breakfast and drew up a second chair in order to join him. “I need your advice, Charles.” “You look very serious,” said Mendosa as he pulled another pastry apart. “I am.” He coughed, but not because it was raining in Rome. “I guess there’s no good way to say it, or to prepare you. It’s fresh from London, like the weather. I’m sorry.” His long face grew longer as he handed over the paper. The headline took up a third of the page, creating shock from the size of the typeface alone: POPE LESBIAN! Mendosa looked at it, his manner slightly bored

Chapter 26 Houston was wan under weepy skies; the squall that had rolled through the Gulf of Mexico had blown itself out and now all that was left of it was rain and clouds like marble. Cardinal Mendosa watched as the limousine pulled away from the jet; he looked over at his companion. “I tell you, Willie, I’m beginning to feel like the specter at the feast. Or the fox at the hunt.” Willie Foot did his best not to yawn. “Don’t worry about it, Charles. Most of the College of Cardinals feel the same way.” “You mean with the press chasing all of us?” Cardinal Mendosa asked, not paying much attention; he was waiting anxiously. “I mean the press wants to get the latest on Pope An, and what’s happening in the Church,” Willie explained with the appearance of patience. “But I’m for her. I’m on her side. I love what she’s doing.” He waved suddenly, summoning a ten-year-old Bronco to approach. “You’ll like my brother-in-law. He’s not an idiot.” “That’s a back-handed compliment if ever I heard on

Chapter 27 By the time the reception was an hour old, Dame Leonie wished she had worn more comfortable shoes; her feet were so sore from walking on four-inch heels that about the only thing she could concentrate on was concealing the pain. Yet the shoes were part of the diplomatic uniform, she reminded herself as she tried to flex her toes. “Delightful evening, Dame Leonie,” said the Ambassador from Sweden to Italy. “I can’t tell you how pleased we are that policy on these events has become more flexible at the Vatican.” “I’ll inform the Pope,” said Dame Leonie, trying to calculate how much longer she would have to be on her feet. The Ambassador’s wife smiled, her manner flawlessly gracious. “I think most of Europe…of the world, for that matter, is pleased at the changes Pope An has brought to the Church. One feels that Catholicism has accepted the responsibility for so many things that previously it ignored. The King’s speech on Friday applauded the Church for changing its position on

Chapter 28 Officially it was a relaxing weekend for President Carey; unofficially it was a confrontation he had sought to avoid. As he got out of his helicopter in the middle of the back pasture of Elihu Nimmo’s land, he hoped that there were no media types keeping watch with long-range binoculars. He waved to the riders who waited for him on restive horses, the three of them each leading a second, saddled horse. “Climb aboard,” offered Tom Nimmo, holding out the reins of the tallest of the three horses to the President. “He’s used to big men.” “I haven’t been on a horse in a decade,” Carey protested as he took the reins and prepared to mount. Tall as he was, he found the seventeen-one-hand black gelding formidable. He wished now he had worn something more substantial than running shoes and light-weight slacks. “Shadow won’t mind. He’s gentle and easy, just the way your secretary told us you like ‘em,” Cliff Anderson said, glancing toward their companion. “You said you wanted to talk i

Chapter 29 Now he knew how the vision would end; it gripped him in horror. To see that tranquil and radiant face eradicated, vanishing so terribly, so swiftly. Every time he witnessed this atrocity he strove to prevent it. He could feel himself in the vision straining to reach her in time, to place himself between her and destruction. The loss of her light, of her serenity and wisdom was more than he could bear. As he lay in a state that was not sleep he felt his ephemeral hands reach out to her, knowing already the gesture was futile, that he was restrained. He shouted to God to protect her in a voice that was only part of the vision. Beyond that vision was the vastness of mystery, and he pursued it, struggling against unknown barriers to reach it, to follow her, guard her. He could not imagine the world with her gone from it. The joy of her faith—a word she disdained—was too dear for him to lose, even to God. The ruin of her body would take her beyond the places his visions reached;

Chapter 30 From her position on the balcony overlooking Saint Peter’s Square, Pope An watched the assembled crowd with a combination of awe and distress. “Why should it matter so much to them?” she wondered aloud. “A few words will not make any difference to them, not as they suppose.” She was rigged out in Papal finery, the jeweled tiara glistening where the light struck it. “It’s important to them because of continuity,” said Cardinal Mendosa, his manner a bit distracted; he had a fourth appointment with Axel Maetrich later that evening and he was growing apprehensive about it. “That is understandable,” said Pope An, her eyes weary on this late December afternoon. “But why should it be so simple a thing? A ritual whose meaning is hardly understood? If there were purpose to this.…” She held up her hand to stop Cardinal Mendosa from explaining. “If I were born to it, I am sure it would have purpose for me. I accept that. As one who comes to this late and without apparent determination,

Chapter 31 Willie Foot, wrapped in an outrageous paisley robe, was on the phone when Leonie woke up. She propped her elbow on the pillow and watched as he scribbled notes from what the caller was telling him. She could see his grave expression, and it troubled her. As soon as he hung up, he rifled back through his notes, then glanced in her direction. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” “What time is it?” she asked, aware only that it was nearing dawn. “Six-twenty, give or take.” He rubbed at his sandy hair, then put a few more notes at the end of the ones he had already taken. She realized he was not going to explain without prompting. “What’s wrong?” He stared at his notes, as if he had not yet made sense of their contents. “There’s been a very serious riot in Warsaw. Over thirty thousand people involved, according to police estimates. One of the churches there was badly damaged, a couple hundred cars were wrecked, windows were smashed and there were a lot of injuries. Hundred in hos

Chapter 32 Houghton Carey had just arrived in the Oval Office when Maxine informed him that he had a call from the Vatican waiting. He dropped his topcoat over the back of Maxine’s chair and spent the better part of a minute cursing under his breath. “Which one is it?” he asked when he had blown off the worst of his ill-humor. “Not Walgren again.” “Cardinal Walgren is in Los Angeles at present,” said Maxine. “It’s Cardinal Mendosa.” “Mendosa!” exclaimed Carey, remembering he had a campaign appearance to make in Houston in ten days’ time. “What on earth—” “He’s been waiting for almost ten minutes. He wasn’t willing to hang up and call back.” There was no change in Maxine’s pleasant manner, but Carey could sense her alarm in the way she handled the papers stacked beside her computer terminal. “I think you’d better take it, sir.” “You’re probably right,” said President Carey with an exasperated snort. “If I read Mendosa correctly, he won’t be put off.” He indicated the outer office. “Give

Chapter 33 In spite of the scrambler and the distance, Elihu Nimmo’s voice sounded remarkably distinct, as if he were talking from Rome instead of Texas. “You had breakfast yet?” he asked his brother-in-law in Rome. “Five-thirty’s a little early for me,” said Cardinal Mendosa, dead-pan. “Oh.” Nimmo paused to work out the time zones. “Sorry. Your man said he’d get you and I thought—” “Don’t worry about it, Spook. I said I wanted to take your call, whenever it came.” He was impatient with Nimmo; he was anxious to know what he thought of Karodin’s information. “I meant it.” “Well, I didn’t want to.…” He let his apology drift. “I’ve been over your stuff,” he said, sounding more like himself. “I don’t know where you got it, but it’s damned potent. I’ve been over it, looking for flaws or plants and I’m damned if I can find any; if they’re there, I haven’t been able to spot them. I’d say this is straight goods. I’m convinced. You don’t want to hear this, but if it was up to me, I’d have to te

Epilogue Below in Saint Peter’s Square an altar had been set up for the celebration of the Feast of Saint Jude. It was against all the recommendations of Vatican Security, the Swiss Guard, the Eurocops and Interpol; in the year and a half since the assassination of Pope An the public events permitted at the Vatican had been scaled down severely. This gesture of the former Vitale Benedetto Cadini was viewed as inexcusably risky, an assessment which amused him. Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung, his petulant baby’s-face now constantly ruddy, stood in the window of the reception room where the press would gather after the Mass, in the company of a dozen other Cardinals who would be part of those answering questions for the Church. “It’s bad enough that he took the name of Jude. Jude! What sort of name is that for a Pope? It was not correct of him to use such a name for his reign.” “It was his decision to make,” said Cardinal van Hooven, not bothering to look up from the newspaper he was reading. “