by Tom Grace
“Yin?” Velu asked.
“Yes. You should have come to me with this,” Donoher said in a softer tone. “The particular congregation could have worked something out. Now that I know your situation, I will certainly urge them to do so on your behalf.”
“Thank you,” Velu said.
Donoher turned to Grin. “Do what you can with that device, and be ready to continue your search as soon as the conclave reconvenes.”
47
ROME
The Mercedes S500 Guard glided up to the curb at the Piazza di San Giovanni in Laterano. It was late in the afternoon, and the Lateran Obelisk that once stood at the Temple of Ammon in Thebes cast a long, slender shadow east toward the Scala Sancta. Two bodyguards stepped from the car and surveyed the area before permitting their charge to exit the armored sedan. Enzo Bruni appeared small in the company of the men sworn to protect him, though he stood five-eight and added a couple inches more with a thick head of wavy black hair. A stylish man, Bruni wore a perfectly tailored suit and expensive leather shoes. He took pride in his appearance, just as he took pride in his standing in the leadership of the Neopolitan Camorra—one of the four primary criminal organizations operating in Italy.
The bodyguards led the Camorra don to the side entrance of the basilica. A devout man despite his profession, Bruni sought the sacrament of reconciliation each week. He did so at a randomly different church, which pleased his chief of security because it avoided predictability.
The Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano was the true basilica of Rome and the diocese administered by the pope as bishop of Rome. Throughout the Middle Ages, the basilica and its adjacent palace were the seat of papal power, eclipsed only by the Vatican in the late fourteenth century. Bruni entered through the medieval portico, passing a statue of Henry IV of France, the protector of the basilica.
Bruni crossed himself as he passed the tomb of Pope Innocent III and continued toward the narthex. His footsteps echoed on the Cosmatesque floor—a work of art fashioned in swirling patterns of marble. From modest beginnings in the fourth century, the interior of the basilica was continually modified over time. An ornate wooden ceiling floated high above the floor, lit from beneath by clerestory windows and supported by arches and pillars designed by Boromini. The basilica’s history matched that of the Church itself, for it had been the scene of both glory and tragedy, all the while growing bit by bit through the ages.
As in Saint Peter’s, the narthex of San Giovanni contained a confessio and a papal altar covered by an ornate ciborium. Rendered in the Gothic style, the structure featured twelve frescoed panels by Barna de Siena and a reliquary chamber containing the heads of Saints Peter and Paul. Bruni genuflected before the altar, then continued down through the center of the church to the confessional.
Bruni examined his conscience as he waited his turn, reviewing any actions through which he spiritually turned his back on God. Only one weighed on his mind today, but Bruni feared it would be the one that damned him to hell for all eternity.
An elderly woman stepped out of the confessional and shared a meek smile with him. Nearly everyone who sought regular confession was Bruni’s age or older, people raised in the Church before Vatican II. Ironically, while the woman confessed her angry thoughts at an inconsiderate neighbor or some other minor transgression, many of those in greatest need of reconciliation rarely availed themselves of the sacrament.
Bruni stepped into the confessional and was greeted by a young priest barely a few years out of the seminary. The priest had the kind of face that made a person feel welcome in this most awkward and revealing of church rituals. Gone were the screens and kneelers in the confessionals of the old Church, visual barriers between supplicant and confessor. Bruni sat down and bowed his head.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” the priest began, Bruni crossing himself in time.
The priest read a brief passage from scripture that emphasized the love in which God held all people, then invited Bruni to talk. In the modern Church, the sacrament evolved from rote formula into a more substantive conversation.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession,” Bruni began. “Father, while I am seeking absolution from my sins, I voluntarily omit some of what I am about to tell you from the seal of confession. What you decide to do with this information I leave to your conscience, but for the sake of my own soul I feel I must give you that opportunity. The matter I wish to discuss is a serious one.”
“I understand,” the priest said calmly, his voice belying the concern he felt.
“I am a leader of the Camorra. I and other men of my profession are seeking to influence the selection of the next pope. The cardinal we support is a good man and will serve the Church faithfully, but we also believe his selection will serve our interests as well. Two nights ago, we received information that Pope Leo, God rest his soul, sent some men into China to break a bishop out of jail and get him out of that country.”
The priest’s eyes narrowed. What remained of his warm smile melted into a thin straight line.
“Your face says you don’t believe me.”
“I’m sorry,” the priest stammered, trying to regain a sense of neutrality.
Bruni smiled. “Not necessary. I had the same look on my face two nights ago. This bishop has been in jail a very long time—the Chinese do not approve of the Church—and the pope wanted him out. The camerlengo, Cardinal Donoher, is in charge of this mission. My associates and I had no problem with this until we learned that Pope Leo secretly named this bishop a cardinal and has asked the conclave to consider him for the papacy. After the first vote, this Chinese bishop has emerged as a viable candidate.”
“How did you acquire this information?” the priest asked, shocked by the detailed revelation.
“We have a source.”
“Inside the conclave?”
Bruni shrugged. “The introduction of this Chinese bishop to the conclave was viewed by my associates as a potential threat to our plans. We do a great deal of business with the Chinese, so we informed them of our concerns and asked them to take care of the problem.”
“What do you want me to do about this?”
“I do not like the idea of killing a priest. Get word to Cardinal Donoher. Warn him that the Chinese know what he’s up to. The rest is up to him.”
48
CHIFENG, CHINA October 31
Liu leaned against the corridor wall outside the interrogation room, eyes closed, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his body exhausted beyond anything he could remember. More than forty-eight hours had passed since Tian ordered him to Chifeng to end Yin Daoming’s life. His knee ached, and the bruise on his head compounded the sensation of a spike being driven up into the base of his skull.
Technicians from the coroner’s office rolled a gurney down the corridor and parked it next to where Liu stood, narrowing the passage to half its width. They were dressed in white, and each man had smeared a strong aromatic balm across his upper lip as a defense against the stench of death that awaited them inside. Liu masked the smell with his unfiltered cigarettes.
Liu heard a rattling sound moving down the corridor toward him. At once, he knew it was Peng.
“Do you have to make so damn much noise?” Liu asked.
“The officer up front asked me to bring you these.” Peng tossed him the bottle. “Headache?”
“What do you think? Cao! My skull is splitting. These cultists will drive me mad.”
Liu poured out a pair of tablets and swallowed them dry, eager for relief. Peng stepped aside as the technicians emerged from the interrogation room with a white plastic body bag. The underside dripped as they carried it out, though with what Peng didn’t want to know. As they laid the bag on the gurney, he could tell it contained a body that was small and light.
“That’s the last one,” the technician said, handing Liu a clipboard of paperwork.
“Did they tell you anything?” Peng asked.
“Just religious nonsense, nothing of use.” Liu snorted a laugh. “You know what the old man said before he died? He forgave me. Do you believe that? The criminal forgave me. Upside-down world and you wonder why I have a headache.”
“The cure for your headache is rest and good news.”
“You have either?”
“A promising lead. An Air Force officer was returning to Base 20 near Jiuquan last night when the bus he was riding on broke down. As they changed the tire, he and the other passengers saw three objects fly overhead. They had large wings, scalloped like those of a bat.”
“Maybe they were bats.”
“Bats do not have engines.”
Liu’s eyes opened. “Continue.”
“The officer could not see the aircraft clearly, but each had an engine that was powering their flight. They were no more than eighty meters off the ground, and he estimates their speed at one hundred kilometers per hour. When the officer returned to his base, he reported what he saw and inquired about any experimental aircraft being tested at night. Fortunately, his superior officer was aware of our investigation and made the connection.”
“Gansu, eh?” Liu pondered.
“The use of light aircraft capable of night flight fits perfectly with the needs of their mission. And we know Kilkenny and at least one accomplice arrived in Mongolia—this answers how they crossed into China. The question is, Why did they not return the way they came?”
“Because they are being aided by these cultists,” Liu replied, the answer painfully obvious to him. “They were kept in hiding until dark and warned to avoid the border.”
Peng nodded. “Based on the time of the sighting and the officer’s estimate of speed, we believe they are covering between one thousand and twelve hundred kilometers per night. And always over sparsely populated areas.”
“Which is easier to do the farther west they go. That still leaves a large border to protect.”
“Yes,” Peng agreed, “but now we know what we’re looking for.”
49
VATICAN CITY
The sounds of Billie Holiday and Her Orchestra greeted Donoher as he entered the catacombs workroom, the jazz legend’s seductive voice dancing with Oscar Peterson’s piano through “These Foolish Things.” Grin sat at his workstation eating a croissant, a steaming cup of espresso nearby. His freshly laundered cassock hung from a coathook near the door.
“All’s quiet on the eastern front,” the computer guru said before the camerlengo could ask the question foremost on his mind.
Donoher pulled up a chair and sat down. “I heartily approve of your choice of music this morning.”
“I’m weak when it comes to a woman with a great set of pipes, and few can deliver raw emotion like Lady Day.”
“That lovely woman had more than her share of pain to draw upon,” Donoher agreed. “Have you learned anything from Velu’s BlackBerry?”
“He was telling the truth. Since arriving in Rome, he’s corresponded only with his brother—all updates on mother Velu’s condition. Some very depressing reading.”
“Velu and I spoke with his brother last night—his mother’s life is near an end.”
“Then I hope he makes it back home in time. I did check the server handling all the Vatican WiFi traffic, and it came out clean. Just a handful of e-mails that sync perfectly with what’s on his PDA.”
“Then Velu’s not our leak.”
“Doesn’t look like it. While I was in the server, I checked out all the other message traffic. I can identify all the devices used by the guards and other Vatican personnel, and even which hot spots they tapped into to send their messages. Velu’s PDA is the only one that connected with the hot spot in Domus Sanctae Marthae.”
“Poor Velu. Among the penalties for what he’s done is excommunication latae senteniae.”
“I know what excommunication is, but what was that bit of Latin at the end?” Grin asked.
“There are two types of excommunication,” Donoher explained. “Ferenda senteniae is a judgment imposed by a Church superior or a Church body. Latae senteniae happens automatically, at the moment the sin is committed.”
“Do not pass GO; do not collect two hundred dollars.”
“In a manner of speaking. Historical interference with papal elections made such an extreme penalty a necessity. In a way, it’s a direct attack on the papacy.”
“What’s on the agenda today?” Grin asked.
“Prayer and reflection coupled with an exhortation by the senior cardinal deacon, which should shake things up as he’s an old fire-and-brimstone man. I expect there will also be a bit of discreet politicking going on. With any luck, we’ll see some progress when voting resumes tomorrow.”
“With any luck, we’ll see Nolan and his team cross the Chinese border with Yin.”
The workroom phone rang, and Grin checked the caller ID.
“It’s your assistant,” he said as he offered Donoher the handset.
“Good morning, Sister.”
“Your Eminence, I have Colonel Gergonne, the commandant of the Swiss Guard, holding for you. He says it’s a most urgent matter he needs to discuss with you.”
“I’ll speak with him.”
The line went silent for a moment as Sister Deborah transferred the call.
“Good morning, Colonel,” Donoher said.
“Your Eminence, I apologize for disturbing you during the conclave, but I have a young priest in my office who is most insistent on speaking with you. In fact, he has been here with us for much of the night. I have verified that he is who he claims to be—a priest assigned to the Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano—and that he has no history of mental illness and is unarmed.”
“Has he given you any indication about why he needs to talk to me now?” Donoher asked.
“He claims to have information for you about a threat to the conclave and a Chinese bishop.”
“Colonel, have him brought to my office straight away. I’ll meet you there shortly.” Donoher shook his head, amazed, as he rose and cradled the handset. “The Lord indeed works in mysterious ways.”
“How so?” Grin asked.
“Would you believe that this very morning, a priest has appeared on our doorstep with information regarding the source of our leak? I’ll let you know what I learn.”
After Donoher left, Grin looked up at the ceiling and whispered, “God, don’t get me wrong. I like divine intervention as much as the next guy, but right now our people in China need it more than we do.”
50
After interviewing the priest, Donoher attended a brief service in the Pauline Chapel, where Cardinal Cain, the senior cardinal in the order of deacons, lived up to his reputation and delivered an exhortation to princely brethren in a basso profundo that shook the foundations of the Apostolic Palace. As the rest of the cardinals returned to their rooms to reflect and pray, Donoher changed into less conspicuous priestly attire and was taken by a Swiss Guard in an unmarked car to the Gemelli Polyclinic.
Cardinal Gagliardi was asleep when Donoher arrived, and the Sicilian looked no better than during the camerlengo’s previous visit. Donoher closed the door behind him to dampen the noise from the corridor. Outside, it was cool for this time of year, but the sky shone clear blue and the midday sun created a warm pool of light by the window. Donoher found an old rosary on the table beside Gagliardi’s bed, its ebony beads polished smooth by thousands of recitations. He moved a chair into the patch of sunlight and began to pray.
Donoher lost track of the time as he prayed, his thoughts gliding in and out with the rosary’s familiar cadences. He had completed two circuits of the rosary—contemplating the joyful and luminous mysteries of Christ’s life—and was about
to start the sorrowful mysteries when Gagliardi stirred.
“Water,” the Sicilian rasped, his voice thin and hoarse.
A pitcher of ice water and a plastic drinking glass with a straw sat on a bedside tray table. Donoher filled the cup and placed the straw close to Gagliardi’s lips, which were cracked and dry. The cardinal sipped gingerly, the parched interior of his mouth absorbing the liquid like a dry sponge. When he had drunk enough, Gagliardi turned his head away. Donoher removed the cup and wiped a droplet that escaped from the corner of the patient’s mouth.
“You’re looking better,” Donoher lied.
“If I looked any worse,” Gagliardi’s words came in barely audible gasps, “I’d be dead.”
“What do your doctors say?”
“That I will die soon.”
“Does your family know?”
“Just my nephew. I don’t want a death vigil. Do we have a new pope?”
Donoher shook his head. “Deadlocked. Voting is suspended until tomorrow.”
“Papabili?”
Donoher pulled his chair close to the bed so that his face was just a few inches from the Sicilian’s.
“In the last balloting, Magni was the only one with more than thirty votes. Escalante and Oromo are both mired in the mid-twenties, followed by Velu.”
Gagliardi tallied the votes in his head and recognized the shortfall. “Who else?”
“Bishop Yin. He fell back a bit after the first ballot and has languished in the teens. I expect his candidacy will falter in the next round.”
“For the best. Ryff?”
“He threw in with Magni’s supporters rather than split the European vote. That’s been the only real change. There was some interesting movement between those backing Velu and Oromo this morning, so we might yet see a Third World consolidation to challenge Magni.”
“He needs the North Americans,” rasped Gagliardi.
“Don’t they all, but the United States is divided. The older urban areas favor Oromo, but the regions with a growing Hispanic presence are backing Escalante. The Canadians, I suspect, are more inclined toward Europe.”