Magnificat (6 page)

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.