by Tom Grace
“Roger that,” Han replied meekly.
“Comms off,” Kilkenny said, disconnecting his link to the rest of his team. “Satellite uplink on.”
Yin turned his attention from the stars to the man seated in front of him and prayed for his rescuer.
38
VATICAN CITY
SETTING SON SEVEN SAMURAI
What are you trying to tell me? Grin stared at the four cryptic words he had written in neat block letters across the top line of the legal pad.
Kilkenny’s latest message departed from the Lord of the Rings theme of the first two. This in itself told Grin something had happened—some event that forced his friend to follow a different storyline from the one he envisioned. At this point in Kilkenny’s plan, the extraction team would have waited until dark before flying north across the Sino-Mongolian border. Under their guise as tourists, they would then depart from Ulaanbaatar for Rome via Germany.
The magnetic lock securing the workroom door buzzed loudly as it released, emitting a discordant note amid the middle movement of Mozart’s “Violin Concerto No. 3 in G.”
“No rock ‘n’ roll tonight?” Donoher asked.
“Wolfgang Amadeus is better for solving puzzles.”
“Puzzles? A crossword or that infernal sudoku?” Donoher asked as he sat down by the workstation.
Grin handed over the legal pad. “A message from Nolan. I know I should get this, but for the moment it’s eluding me.”
“That’s because you’re exhausted.”
“Maybe, but I’m not on the run with half the Chinese military after me. I promise to get a solid eight in the sack right after our team gets the hell out of China.”
“I share your sentiments.” Donoher shrugged and placed the pad on the desktop. “Sadly, I can’t make heads or tails of this message either.”
As the digital clock display on Grin’s largest monitor reached 8:00 p.m., the screen cleared and filled with the image of Jackson Barnett seated in his office at the CIA’s Langley campus.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Barnett said. “I see from the news that black smoke has once again emerged from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel.”
“Yes,” Donoher replied, “and I apologize in advance, but I am not permitted to discuss the election.”
“No offense taken. Regarding our friends in the Far East, I have a great deal to report.” Barnett flipped open a folder. “All crossings along China’s borders with Russia and Mongolia are closed. The normal complement of border guards has been augmented with PLA troops, and army helicopter units are out patrolling over three thousand miles of border, including the stretch China shares with North Korea.” Barnett glanced up from his notes. “The last I heard, the Vatican’s relations with Pyongyang were as frosty as our own.”
“A move in that direction would be out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Donoher concurred.
“The size of the troop movements we’re seeing has more than piqued the interest of the Russians,” Barnett continued. “They’ve placed their own forces on an elevated-alert status. The Chinese are being typically closemouthed about what they’re doing, and the Russians, being Russians, are suspicious.
“The city of Chifeng is under martial law, and PLA forces are visible in significant numbers at every transportation center in the country. The Chinese Navy is also making its presence known in the Yellow Sea and the Formosa Strait, countering any attempt to fly over water to South Korea or Taiwan. Antisubmarine warfare vessels have also been deployed, presumably against a submarine extraction.”
“I wasn’t aware the Vatican possessed a submarine,” Grin offered.
Ignoring the comment, Barnett pulled a page from his file and placed it on a document reader just off camera. The image on the screen immediately split into two windows, with Barnett on the right and a facsimile of a printed flier on the left. Three photographs ran down the side of the flier—prison shots of Yin and Kilkenny and a grainy image of Tao in uniform. Two blocks of text accompanied each image, one in Cyrillic and the other in Mongolian.
“This information has been issued to all law enforcement and border personnel in Mongolia—the bishop and our associates have been accused of a litany of offenses. As Mongolia is quite interested in fostering good relations with its neighbor to the south, the Chinese have effectively cut off this avenue of escape. It will also be only a matter of time before the authorities in Ulaanbaatar generate a match for Nolan from his tourist visa, albeit under a false identity. The question is whether they will choose to share this information with the Chinese.”
“Why is that?” Grin asked.
“Embarrassment,” Donoher answered.
“By now, the Chinese have combed their database of foreign visitors and come up empty, which means Nolan entered their country illegally,” Barnett continued. “In confirming that he was in Mongolia just days before appearing at Chifeng Prison, the Mongolians would be conceding he crossed their border into China.”
“So they’ll get with the program and try to broom that inconvenient detail under the rug,” Grin said.
“I’m certain the entry paperwork for Nolan and his team has already disappeared,” Barnett agreed.
Grin skimmed the notes on his legal pad. “So Mongolia is out. Same with Russia and North Korea, and I’m not sure Nolan would risk flying low over large expanses of open water.”
“What are you getting at?” Barnett asked.
“Nolan’s last message,” Grin replied. “He changed the reference he was using, which means his plans have changed. The next step was to fly north into Mongolia. If north is out, he has to go somewhere else.”
“But where?” Donoher asked. “You’ve already eliminated north and east, and south would be equally dangerous flying over the densely populated regions of China to where? Vietnam, Laos, or Burma.”
“Oh, that is so bad.” Grin groaned. “They’re heading west.”
“Are you certain?” Barnett asked.
“Nolan wrote it down twice, just to make sure I got it. He threw me with the Seven Samurai reference because I knew there was no way they would try to fly all the way to Japan. But his reference to the ‘son’ of the Seven Samurai is a different story. The original film has been rehashed a dozen different ways, most of which I own, including the animated film A Bug’s Life. One of the best reworkings of Kurosawa’s masterpiece is The Magnificent Seven—and the setting for this particular son of the Seven Samurai is the Old West. And in case I missed it the first time around, Nolan used the words ‘setting son,’ and for ‘son’ read our local star and not a male offspring.”
“The sun sets in the west,” Donoher said, paraphrasing the now obvious.
“Considering their options, a westerly route would take them over the least populated regions of China,” Barnett said. “The question remains is where they intend to cross.”
“I’m sure Nolan will let us know as soon as he figures it out,” Grin replied.
“Doubtless,” Barnett agreed. “What about the leak? Have you made any progress?”
“Possibly,” Donoher replied. “I hope to know more tonight.”
“Well, that’s all I have, so don’t let me keep you.”
“Thank you for all your help,” Donoher said.
“We both have a vested interest here,” Barnett replied, before terminating the link.
“So, what’s happening tonight?” Grin asked.
“Many things,” Donoher replied, “but first we must speak with an old and trusted friend.”
39
Donoher and Grin found Archbishop Sikora in the Redemptoris Mater Chapel. He was seated near the late pope’s empty chair, deep in thought. A digital video camera mounted on a tripod stood aimed at the papal throne.
“Archbishop, thank you for meeting with us,” Donoher said warmly, announcing their arrival.
Sikora rose and moved to greet them. It seemed to Donoher that the man had aged since Pope Leo’s death.
“Your Eminence,” Sikora said respectfully.
“This is my associate, Mister Grinelli.”
Grin extended his hand, “Your Excellency.”
“A pleasure.” Sikora took Grin’s hand in both of his own and greeted him warmly.
“I’ve asked Mister Grinelli to join us as he is assisting me in the matter I wish to discuss. I see you’ve brought the camera.”
“Yes, though I was curious why. Is our conversation to be recorded?”
“No,” Donoher replied. “We simply wished to see the device.”
Grin stepped to the camera and began studying it. Donoher walked slowly past the pope’s empty chair, recalling the last time he was here. He motioned for Sikora to resume his place and moved a chair in front of him.
“How are you, Michal?” Donoher asked.
“All right, I suppose. I am greatly relieved the pope’s suffering is finally over. The past few years were most difficult for His Holiness.”
“For someone who was so physically active, his illness was particularly cruel,” Donoher agreed. “Thankfully it spared his mind. But what of you? Any thoughts on what you will do?”
“I have no idea. I served His Holiness ever since I was newly ordained and he was the archbishop of Krakow.”
“More than once he admitted to me he would have been lost without you,” Donoher offered kindly.
“He was a man of vision,” Sikora demurred. “I just kept track of the details. And now I am just one of those details, something to be attended to once the new pope is elected. What does one do with an old archbishop with no diocese?”
“I have always fantasized about finding a small parish somewhere in need of a priest—an old country church where you know the entire congregation by name. A small flock to tend in my waning years.”
“That would be nice,” Sikora agreed.
“All will be revealed in God’s time, but now to the matter at hand. The disk you gave me before the opening session—it was made with this camera?”
“Yes.”
“And you were present when His Holiness recorded his message to the cardinals?”
“No, the pope was alone.”
“Alone? Who operated the camera?”
“His Holiness, with a remote control.”
Donoher glanced at Grin.
“Remotes are standard equipment,” Grin confirmed. “It lets dad be in the picture with the rest of the family.”
“The pope’s instructions to me were quite clear. His message was for the cardinal electors only. I set up the camera, made certain everything was ready, and handed the pope the remote control. Then I left. He used this camera many times to send birthday messages and such to close friends and relatives. He knew how to switch it on and off. He called for me when he was finished.”
“And what happened then?”
“I removed the disk from the camera and placed it in a plastic case.”
“There was only one clip on the disk you gave me,” Donoher said. “Me, I require several attempts to record even a brief message on my answering machine. Did you edit the footage the pope recorded, trimming it down to show only the best version?”
“No, the disk I gave you was the one from the camera. His Holiness rarely required more than one attempt to deliver a message.”
Donoher nodded, conceding that fact.
“What is the reason for these questions?” Sikora asked. “Was there a problem with the disk?”
“Someone revealed the contents of the pope’s message to an audience His Holiness did not intend,” Donoher replied. “What happened after the disk was recorded?”
“The pope signed an amendment to the Apostolic Constitution in the presence of Cardinal Cain and me. The document and the disk were placed in a large envelope, which the pope then sealed.”
“And all this took place here, in the chapel?”
“Yes. Cardinal Cain was with me outside the chapel when the pope recorded his message. After the pope sealed the envelope, Cardinal Cain and I placed it in a secure box at the IOR.”
The Instituto per Opera Religioso—the Institute for Religious Works more commonly known as the Vatican Bank—held as many secrets in its vaults as notes and securities. As the head of Vatican Intelligence, Donoher knew both were valuable forms of currency. That the pope would place this secret in one of the bank’s vaults made perfect sense.
“What were the pope’s instructions regarding the envelope?” Donoher asked.
“The IOR could release it only to the pope himself, or, in the event of his death, to the cardinal camerlengo on the morning of the opening session of the conclave. My instructions were to bring you to the IOR to retrieve it. If I was unable to perform this duty, the IOR was to notify the cardinal camerlengo directly.”
Sikora spoke easily, without a hint of nervousness. Donoher also noted that he maintained eye contact as he spoke.
“So, from the time you removed the disk from the camera until you placed it in the vault,” Donoher posited, “the disk was never out of your sight?”
“That is correct,” Sikora replied.
“And you were never alone with it?”
“Never. Cardinal Cain and I delivered the envelope to the IOR together.”
“Do you have any questions for the archbishop?” Donoher asked Grin.
“Just one. Did you program the camcorder to put a time and date stamp on the DVD?”
“I always do that, for posterity.”
Grin nodded to Donoher that he was finished.
“Thank you, Michal. That’s all the questions we have for now.”
DONOHER LED GRIN out of the Apostolic Palace and along the broad path that ran behind the basilica. Above them, the basilica’s dome glowed in an aura of artificial light that obscured the stars above.
“What do you think?” Donoher asked.
“He was being straight with you. You going to double-check his story with Cardinal Cain?”
“Of course, but I’m sure I’ll get the same answers.”
“Did you think Sikora was the leak?”
“Not really. I thought perhaps there was a time when the disk was left unattended, or maybe the files were copied onto a hard drive. I hoped we’d find an opportunity when someone could have seen the pope’s message beforehand.”
“In the legal thrillers my lady likes to read, it’s called the chain of evidence, and the chain here looks pretty solid. I suppose Sikora and Cain could have sneaked a look at the disk, but that depends on how much time elapsed between the recording of the DVD and when they dropped it off at the bank. The IOR should have a record of the deposit, and the camera burned the file data onto the disk.”
“Even if opportunity and curiosity somehow led a pair of churchmen to conspiracy, you’re forgetting the seal. If they opened the envelope, they would have broken the pope’s seal. Closing it again would have required a new seal, and to make one of those you need the pope’s ring.”
“Did he ever take it off?”
“Not to the best of my knowledge,” Donoher said. “And when I received the envelope at the IOR, the seal was still intact.”
“Barnett told us Beijing received word from their embassy in Rome around four in the morning—eight o’clock last night, our time. If Sikora and Cain are the leak, they sat on what they knew until after the conclave started, which begs the question, Why? If it’s not them, we’re back to either someone eavesdropping on the Sistine Chapel or a cardinal has broken his oath.”
“I don’t find either possibility to my liking,” Donoher admitted, “but I pray it’s not the latter.”
40
CHIFENG, CHINA October 30
Ke Wen-An could not feel his arms. The thin steel cable from which he was suspended dug deeply into his wrists like a dull saw blade. At first, the pain was excruciating, but numbness brought some relief. Blood streaked down his arms from where the skin had given way, the deep red trails dry and hard in the hours since the wounds were fresh.
/> The ordeal began late the previous day, when the police arrested Ke, along with his wife, his father, and his young daughter. Initially, they thought they were just one of the many families of Roman Catholics detained by authorities for questioning, but a unique interest in them became quickly apparent. Over the past twelve hours, the gray concrete interrogation room became hell for Ke and his family.
Ke’s feet dangled just inches from the floor, and he wondered if the weights strapped to his ankles would eventually lengthen his body enough to gain even a meager foothold. The floor was close enough to tempt him with the possibility of a respite, but the price to end his anguish was still too high.
Blood and saliva trickled down Ke’s throat, triggering a spasm of coughing. His body reflexively fought to prevent fluid from collecting in his lungs to avoid drowning, but with each breath his exhalations weakened. Carbon dioxide, the waste product of normal breathing, was slowly building to toxic levels inside Ke’s body.
And he was naked. Not that Ke cared at all about his state of undress—agony has a way of rendering the superficial concerns of modesty irrelevant. Bruises mottled his flesh—whorls of blues, blacks, and sickly yellows—a visual record of abuse by clubs, batons, whips, and fists. Burns scarred his flesh where cigarettes had been extinguished and firecrackers detonated. Blackened stubble was all that remained of the tufts of hair that grew in various places on his body. And when the fire beneath his arms failed to elicit the information his interrogators demanded, an accelerant was applied to his genitalia to assure adequate fuel for the flame.
As a physician, Ke understood the trauma his body was enduring. Injury and reaction. Cause and effect. And little by little his body’s defenses were failing, unable to keep up with the increasing scope of damage. He was past the tipping point and knew with all certainty that he would never recover. Not that he wanted to.
Ke was not tortured alone. The body of his wife lay atop a large table in front of him. In between his own beatings, he was forced to watch as the woman he loved and the mother of his child was tormented, her body defiled with vicious depravity. A succession of guards raped and sodomized Gan Yueying, splaying her nude body across the table for their warped, deviant pleasure. The last wrapped his meaty hands around her delicate throat and nearly strangled her to death as he climaxed.