Magnificat (10 page)

“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.