Magnificat (9 page)

“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.