The Secret Cardinal

by Tom Grace

  Grin, still clad in priestly garb, emerged from the palezzetto and strode purposefully toward the camerlengo.

  “A euro cent for your thoughts,” Grin offered as he approached.

  “You’d receive a mighty poor return on that investment.”

  “Oh.”

  “I was just recalling a conversation I had with Nolan before this all began. He asked if I had yet grown so accustomed to the splendor of my surroundings that I no longer noticed them.” Donoher nodded his head toward the seventeenth-century fountain. “In the whole of the Vatican, this place is one of my favorites. There’s an inscription on the ship: The papal fleet does not pour out flames, but sweet water that quenches the fires of war.”

  “A worthy sentiment, history notwithstanding.”

  “Of the two hundred and sixty-three men who have succeeded Saint Peter as bishop of Rome, only a handful ever sent men into battle,” Donoher countered calmly. “What’s nice about today is that there are no tourists, making for a most welcome reprieve.”

  “I heard about the black smoke.”

  “The only good news of the day, unless you have something to report.”

  “That depends on how you look at it. We’ve searched about a quarter of the apartments, and we’ve found only a few replacement batteries for hearing aids. Either your fellow cardinals are Luddites, or they left all their gadgetry at home.”

  “I suspect a combination of the two, though the few of my brethren who comfortably employ such devices turned them over to my office before the start of the conclave. So you’ll be back at it this afternoon?”

  “Just as soon as they lock the doors to the chapel.”

  “Then we both should be heading back. Please walk with me.”

  The camerlengo set the pace, his worn knees creaking audibly beneath the crimson choir dress. Abrupt changes in the weather, such as the cold front that crossed the Italian peninsula just before dawn, wreaked havoc with his battered joints.

  “I take it there’s been no word from Nolan,” Donoher said.

  “None, but I don’t expect to hear from him until he has something important to say.”

  “It’s night there now. I hope the Lord provides our people with a bright star to guide their journey.”

  “Amen to that,” Grin replied.

  44

  After the ballot papers for the afternoon session were distributed, the junior cardinal deacon ushered the master of papal liturgical ceremonies and the masters of ceremonies out of the Sistine Chapel and closed the doors. The cardinals were once more in conclave.

  From his seat near the altar, Donoher studied his fellow cardinals, wondering what kinds of subtle deal-making had transpired during the midday break. Ryff, the German, effectively scuttled his candidacy the previous evening, throwing his support behind Magni. It was a shrewd move, and one that played on the old adage that fat popes followed skinny ones. At sixty-nine and with proportions matching those of Pope John XXIII, Magni’s pontificate would certainly be far shorter than Leo’s impressive reign. In supporting Magni, Ryff demonstrated solidarity with the European cardinals, who as a block controlled nearly fifty percent of the votes. The German cardinal could afford to wait, and his sacrifice would not be forgotten the next time around.

  Though Magni surged to thirty-three votes in the morning’s second ballot, it was clear that Europe wasn’t voting as a monolithic bloc. In his conversations between sessions, Donoher detected in some of Europe’s non-Italian cardinals a sentiment that the wrong European stepped aside. Donoher also noted that the loss of Gagliardi took some of the wind out of the unified Italians’ sails.

  Escalante garnered twenty-five votes, drawing support not only from Latin America but portions of the United States, Canada, and the Philippines. Oromo’s candidacy was unusual in that it combined the undeniable growing importance of Africa to the Roman Catholic Church with a charismatic man who promised to be a staunch defender of the faith and a powerful voice to the Third World. As a Vatican insider, the Sudanese cardinal was well known by his fellows in the college, and this familiarity, Donoher believed, helped him retain his base of support through the consolidating ballots.

  Yin and Velu, too, held onto their core of support, and even gathered a few additional votes, though not enough as yet to threaten the front-runners. Donoher was certain that those two names were the subject of much discussion during the break, with cardinals hoping Velu would follow Ryff’s example and others politely lobbying against the quixotic candidacy of the endangered bishop of Shanghai.

  Ryff rose from his seat near the center of the chapel, beneath Michelangelo’s Creation of Eve.

  “My Most Eminent Lord,” the German called out, his voice directed at the camerlengo, “a question, if I may, before the next vote.”

  Donoher nodded. All eyes were on Ryff.

  “Is there any news of Bishop Yin?” Ryff asked.

  After scuttling his own candidacy, the German became the perfect choice of the Europeans to address this issue. If asked by any of the remaining papabili, the question might have appeared self-serving, an attempt to free up fifteen votes, but from Ryff it expressed the sincere curiosity of the conclave.

  What Donoher found interesting about Yin’s support, at least as he perceived it, was that it came from all over the globe. The other papabili found initial backing from ethnic or geographic blocs, then drew in uncommitted electors as they gained momentum. Yin’s core defied conventional wisdom, and Donoher believed these electors represented a different dynamic in this conclave—an expression of pure faith that God had given them a sign.

  “Bishop Yin and his liberators are at present seeking a way out of China. At the same time, the Chinese government is vigorously attempting to prevent his departure. The situation is dire but not without hope. I am certain the bishop of Shanghai remains in your prayers as he does in mine during this most difficult time.”

  Murmurs of approval rippled through the chapel, the desire for the safe deliverance of those in danger unanimous among the cardinal electors.

  “And now,” Donoher continued, “with the guidance of the Holy Spirit, let us continue with the sacred task of electing the next supreme pontiff.”

  “OROMO,” CAIN ANNOUNCED, reading off the final ballot.

  Donoher didn’t need to hear the name called to know that after three days the conclave remained deadlocked. Though the tallies varied by a few votes, the order of the candidates remained unchanged.

  The ballots and notes were again collected and burned, the coils of black smoke symbolic of the dour mood that permeated the chapel. After nine rounds of balloting, the cardinals were no closer to electing a new pope than on the opening day of the conclave. They felt the eyes of the world’s Catholics upon them, a billion souls urging them to choose wisely and challenging them to rise above the status quo.

  Yet the man who held the narrowest of leads in the balloting was also the safest, least objectionable of the papabili, the embodiment of time-honored Vatican tradition. Pope Leo XIV would be a tough act to follow, but the waiting Church wanted and needed an encore.

  Donoher left his seat, said a brief prayer before the altar, and turned to face the other cardinals.

  “My Esteemed Brothers, I believe our present impasse requires a pause in our deliberations. Per article seventy-four of the Apostolic Constitution, I suspend voting for one day to provide us with time for prayer and reflection.”

  45

  GANSU, CHINA

  During the second night, the BATs crossed from Inner Mongolia into the harsh and barren Gansu Province, a region traditionally considered by the Chinese as the outer limit of the Middle Kingdom. A thin sliver of a moon hung high above, casting an eerie light on the mountainous terrain. Early in tonight’s flight, they passed over a remote section of the Great Wall, the famous barrier against invasion from the north.

  “It is a shame we are not following the ancient route through the Hexi Corridor,” Yin mused as he gazed at the la
ndscape below. “I recall it was most impressive.”

  “Sightseeing is not on the agenda,” Kilkenny said curtly.

  Tao scowled at Kilkenny and placed a gloved hand on Yin’s. “I’ve traveled quite a bit in Gansu, and it was spectacular.”

  Tao’s instinct told her Yin was feeling homesick for a land he hadn’t seen in three decades. And once out of China, he could never return. As he passed into the west, everything Yin had ever known was slipping away. Yin nodded, and Tao glimpsed a hint of his warm smile through his dark visor. The quiet bishop returned his gaze to the windswept land below.

  “If our circumstances were different,” Tao said, “what would you recommend we see?”

  “The land below us has much history and much beauty. The Buddhist caves at Dunhuang and Bingling Si contain magnificent works of art. Maiji Shan near Tianshui is also quite spectacular. If we were on foot—”

  “God forbid,” Kilkenny interrupted.

  “—then we would have little choice but to follow the Hexi Corridor,” Yin continued. “It was the only route west. From the south, the corridor follows the edge of the Qilian Shan Mountains—the foothills of Tibet. Only desert and mountains are to the north. Chinese civilization originated in Gansu, and control of the corridor was very important. All trade passed through here, and the Great Wall protected much of the corridor. It was a critical piece of the Silk Road. Many saw the importance of this region, and control over it changed hands many times. The descendants of all those conquests are still here.”

  “Sounds like Ireland,” Kilkenny offered.

  “Among those who came were Tibetans. Monks settled in a beautiful valley south of Langzhou and founded the monastery of Labrang Si at Xiahe. It is the most important monastery outside of Tibet and one of the centers of the Yellow Hat Sect. I found refuge with the monks at Labrang Si. It was very good for the spirit in difficult times.”

  As Yin spoke, he stared into the distance as if his memories lay there. Absently, he moved his right hand to his chest. Tao noticed immediately.

  “Is your heart bothering you again?” Tao asked.

  Kilkenny turned in his seat. Despite Jing’s initial diagnosis of stress, Kilkenny knew a combat medic was no substitute for a cardiologist.

  “My heart is troubled,” Yin replied, his voice a choked whisper.

  “Do you want to have the medic look at you again?” Kilkenny asked.

  “No. You said we must keep moving.”

  “But you are the reason we’re here,” Kilkenny countered. “Do you need a doctor?”

  “I am fine,” Yin lied. But behind his helmet, unseen by Kilkenny and Tao, tears streamed down his face.

  SECOND LIEUTENANT SUN TONGLAI of the People’s Liberation Army Air Force paced along the side of the unpaved stretch of road south of Dunhuang trying to keep warm, a futile effort against the mass of cold air flowing down like an icy river from the mountains. He lit another cigarette and thrust his gloved hands back into the pockets of his long blue coat. He drew in each breath deeply and held the warm smoke inside his lungs, the cigarette tip a glowing ember. After a pleasant leave home, Sun did not relish the idea of freezing to death on a desolate road in the middle of nowhere.

  Sun was stationed at Base 20 outside Jiuquan, and the small bus that was taking him back sat by the side of the road with a flat tire. The driver, with the help of a few passengers, had removed the damaged tire and was mounting the spare. With any luck, they would soon reload all the baggage and once again be on the road.

  “What is that sound?” one of Sun’s fellow passengers asked.

  At first, Sun heard nothing. Then a sharp note rose above the rushing wind, almost a whistle but constant and growing in intensity.

  “Is that a plane?” another asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Sun replied. “It sounds too small, and too low to the ground. Perhaps it is just an echo coming through the mountains.”

  Because he was an Air Force officer, most passengers accepted Sun’s explanation of the phenomenon, but the sound continued to puzzle him. He scanned the heavens, looking for running lights that would reveal a passing aircraft’s position, but he saw only stars and a sickle moon.

  Something black crossed the bright band of the Milky Way, large enough to blot out handfuls of stars. It was followed by a second shape, then a third—three distinct black forms with scalloped wings.

  “Too big for birds,” one passenger said.

  “They are making the noise,” another offered.

  “You’re military,” a fellow passenger demanded. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Sun admitted before catching himself. “Listen, people, do not tell anyone what you have seen. If it is military and they are flying at night, you are not supposed to see it. Just forget about it.”

  46

  VATICAN CITY

  “Where did you find this?” Donoher asked.

  The sleek black device was rectangular with rounded edges, about the size of the camerlengo’s palm, and less than a half inch thick. The face consisted of an LCD screen framed in silver and an array of tiny silver oval buttons. Above the LCD screen were three small holes for the speaker and the name BlackBerry.

  “In Cardinal Velu’s apartment,” Grin replied. “It was packed in among his things.”

  Donoher switched on the phone. A screen graphic appeared as the BlackBerry booted up and tried to acquire a signal.

  “It won’t work down here,” Grin said, reminding Donoher that they were in the catacombs. “I tried it in the apartment as well—I don’t think Velu’s carrier in Bombay has a roaming deal with any of the local providers. Then one of the Swiss Guards noticed something interesting about this particular BlackBerry.”

  “Did he now?” Donoher asked.

  “This model is WiFi-enabled and compatible with the Vatican’s wireless network,” Grin continued. “And it’s standard issue for the Swiss Guards. From his apartment, Cardinal Velu can send and receive e-mail and text messages.”

  “Has he done so?”

  “I haven’t checked. I thought I’d better bring it up with you before rifling through his e-mail.”

  “Of all the cardinals, Velu makes the least sense for this. He’s been involved in our negotiations with the Chinese regarding Yin and our other clergy for years.” Donoher handed the BlackBerry back to Grin. “I want you to review Velu’s messages, but before you do, let’s have a chat with him.”

  THEY FOUND VELU deep in prayer, alone and kneeling at the grave of Pope Leo XIV in the Old Grottoes beneath Saint Peter’s Basilica. The claustrophobic space was all that remained of the original basilica, its volume so reduced that a man of average height could touch the ceiling with little difficulty. All around them lay the intricately fashioned tombs of popes dating to antiquity.

  As the sound of their echoing footsteps drew closer, Velu lifted his head and turned in their direction.

  “So sorry to disturb you, Esteemed Brother,” Donoher apologized.

  Velu slowly rose to his feet. “Just visiting with an old friend. I was unable to pay my respects before the funeral. I do not believe I have met your associate, Father?”

  “It’s Mister,” Grin corrected him. “I’m not a priest.”

  “I do not understand,” Velu said, eyeing Grin’s cassock.

  “Mister Grinelli’s sole oath is to the conclave,” Donoher explained. “He is dressed in this manner so that he may move about the Vatican without drawing undo attention to himself. He is involved with liberating Bishop Yin.”

  Velu extended his hand and clasped Grin’s tightly. “Then my prayers are with you.”

  “Uh, thanks.”

  “What has brought you both here?” Velu asked.

  “We’re looking for answers,” Donoher replied.

  Grin reached into his pocket and pulled out the BlackBerry. “This device was found in your room. Is it yours?”

  “Yes,” Velu replied.

  “Please think quite carefully abou
t the next question,” Donoher said, “because we do intend to investigate this device. Have you employed it since swearing the oath to secrecy?”

  “Yes.”

  Donoher seemed almost pained by the admission. “Then you admit to breaking your holy oath?”

  Velu nodded. “I had to.”

  “But in heaven’s name, why?”

  “My mother is dying. That’s why I did not come to Rome immediately. I stayed with her until the last possible moment. I even offered to claim grave impediment and forgo the conclave, but she would not hear of it. She hopes that I will be pope.”

  “What does your mother have to do with Yin?” Grin asked.

  “Nothing at all,” Velu replied. “I just pray the new pope will be named soon so I can be with her at the end.”

  “Just so we are crystal clear about this,” Donoher said, “with whom have you been in contact?”

  “My brother, Raji. He and his wife are helping to care for my mother.”

  “And no one else?” Grin asked.

  “No one.”

  “Was your communication with Raji strictly about your mother’s health,” Donoher continued, “and you at no time relayed information about the conclave?”

  Velu nodded. “My oath regarding the secrecy of the conclave remains intact.”

  “Still, you broke your oath to refrain from contact outside the conclave,” Donoher said, “and you will be subject to penalties as judged appropriate by the next pope. Also, your BlackBerry is forfeited for the duration of the conclave, and you will from this moment abide by all the norms and procedures of the Apostolic Constitution.”

  “I understand,” Velu said.

  “You are also forbidden to mention to anyone that your room was searched—this is a matter of life or death.”