Magnificat (23 page)

“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.”