Magnificat (60 page)

“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.