The Secret Cardinal

by Tom Grace

  The ground floor of the townhouse was laid out in large reading rooms and served as Cusumano’s place of business as a dealer in fine antique books. The air carried the barest scent of old leather and vellum; a state-of-the-art environmental system maintained ideal conditions for book preservation inside the townhouse. If the furnishings in the shop and the number of volumes on display were any indication, Cusumano was very successful at his trade.

  They climbed a spiral staircase to the second floor, and Cusumano left his guest in his personal library while he went in search of the vintage he had in mind. He returned a few moments later with a pair of broad-bowled glasses and a well-aged Barolo. Cusumano poured two generous servings and handed one to the camerlengo.

  “To my uncle, a man of faith and family all the years of his life.” The nephew settled into a plush leather sofa.

  “To Cardinal Gagliardi,” Donoher added. “May his soul find the rest that it deserves.”

  The Barolo lived up to its reputation as one of Italy’s finest red wines, this mature example offering a rich bouquet to the nose and a complex, flavorful palate. In the Corktown of his youth, Donoher recalled the tradition of toasting the deceased with a fine whiskey. The Poles of Detroit’s Hamtramck enclave did the same, only with vodka. Spirits for the spirit.

  “Death came quickly,” Donoher said. “His heart could take no more.”

  “I’m thankful you were with him at the end. No one should die alone.”

  “I agree. In the end, your uncle was able to make a full confession and unburden himself of all the troubles of this world.”

  “Then he meets God with a clear conscience.”

  “This is a fine wine,” Donoher said, changing the subject, “and no doubt expensive. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

  “My uncle always said that wine, like talent, was meant to be shared. Wasn’t Christ’s first miracle the wine at the wedding feast in Cana?”

  “He also shared wine with his closest friends at the Last Supper, though I doubt it was a Barolo. Your uncle was quite proud of you, and I can see you’ve done well for yourself,” Donoher said as he surveyed the room. “I would never have guessed the trade in old books was so financially rewarding.”

  “I deal in rare, prized volumes. Just this morning, I completed the sale of an exquisite first edition of Palladio’s I Quattro Libri dell’ Architettura to an American collector. Rare books are works of art as well as sound investments.”

  “Such a unique and profitable enterprise no doubt requires specialized accounting and bank services. Your uncle mentioned your interest in our bank at the Vatican.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes, and regardless of who becomes the next pope, I’m sure you will be pleased to know that regulatory oversight of the IOR will be most exacting. Many of the laws governing our bank, though providing a desirable measure of privacy, also make it difficult to monitor accounts for criminal activity. The IOR is not just a bank, it is the Church’s bank, and we must hold it to a higher standard. Otherwise, some unscrupulous persons might try to launder money through our accounts or obtain valid letters of credit for fraudulent purposes. We won’t allow the Church’s bank to be abused by anyone.”

  Cusumano leaned back, slowly swirling the deep red wine in his glass, his eyes narrow and fixed on the camerlengo. A hint of a smile curled the corner of Donoher’s mouth, the message delivered.

  “Are you a religious man?” Donoher asked.

  “In my own fashion.”

  “Then you are of course familiar with the concept of excommunication. Are you aware that of the grave sins resulting in this form of censure, there are twelve that only the pope can absolve? Attacking or murdering a prelate, or aiding those who do so, is one. If you, for example, were to commit such a terrible sin, even I, the camerlengo of the Church, could not restore you.”

  “Then it would be best to avoid such a sin, especially now when there is no pope.”

  “It would indeed.”

  Donoher finished his wine and set the empty glass on the table beside his chair. Cusumano did not offer to refill it.

  “One final matter, before I go,” Donoher said. “The laws of the Vatican are not the same as the laws of Italy. One major difference is the death penalty. Though not imposed by a pope for well over a century, capital punishment remains an option. And for murderous crimes against the Church, I don’t think Italy would quibble over extradition.”

  54

  VATICAN CITY

  “Have you learned anything?” Donoher asked upon his return to the workroom.

  Grin was standing by the imaging chamber studying several hundred miles of mountainous terrain.

  “In his latest message, Nolan is playing seven degrees of trivial separation. The first line reads MISTY MOUNTAIN HOP 111, which I’ve taken literally as he’s crossing the mountains on the first of November. But “Misty Mountain Hop” is also a song on Led Zeppelin’s fourth album. In the second line, ZOSO is the graphic symbol representing Jimmy Page, the lead guitarist for Led Zeppelin. This symbol first appears in the record sleeve of the aforementioned fourth album.”

  “So Nolan is pointing you to this particular recording.”

  “More like beating me over the head with it. Zeppelin’s fourth album is a fan favorite and considered by many to be their best. Personally, I prefer Physical Graffiti, but that’s just me. In telling me ZOSO BEST 41, I read not only that album number four is number one—the best—but also that I should look at the fourth song on side one. That’s tough to do in the CD age, but I’m old enough to own a copy of the album on vinyl, and the fourth song on side one is ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ It’s a classic.”

  “Okay. What does it mean?”

  “The name ‘Stairway to Heaven’ was coined by the fourth-century Indian poet Kalidasa to describe the Himalayas,” Grin explained. “Display view one.”

  The hologram in the imaging chamber dissolved and was instantly replaced with a view of a significantly larger piece of real estate.

  “The Himalayas are approximately eighteen hundred miles in length, running from Afghanistan in the west to India’s Arunachal Pradesh in the east.”

  “That doesn’t narrow it down much.”

  “No, it doesn’t. When most people consider the term Stairway to Heaven in relation to the Himalayas, they think of Tibet and Nepal.”

  “That’s where Nolan intends to cross?” Donoher asked.

  “No. The BATs are designed for low-level flying, so I’m not sure if they can handle that kind of altitude. Even if they could, our people would probably need bottled oxygen. And then there’s the weather—it’s a little late in the season to be crossing the Himalayas on foot or in a motorized kite. I kicked this scenario around a dozen different ways, and what really made me reject it is that this clue is too straightforward. It’s not like Nolan. That’s why I had to dig deeper, and I finally figured it out. Do you know the film Fast Times at Ridgemont High?”

  “Should I?”

  “Only if you enjoy well-written comedy interspersed with teen angst and adolescent coming-of-age trauma, all set in the early eighties.”

  “Not exactly at the top of my list,” Donoher replied. “Please continue.”

  “This movie featured what was, in my humble opinion, one of Sean Penn’s best performances, though after my recent stint in a cassock, I have a newfound appreciation for his later work in We’re No Angels. But I digress.”

  “You most certainly do,” Donoher agreed, tempering his impatience. “How does this film fit in with Nolan’s message?”

  “In Fast Times, the dweeb nicknamed Rat seeks dating advice from the cool guy Damone. Among the pearls of wisdom Damone has to offer is the suggestion that side one of Led Zeppelin’s fourth album is the best make-out music ever recorded. This gets us back to ZOSO BEST 41.”

  “But that’s the album that pointed you to the entire Himalayan range?”

  “Yes, but that’s not the clue. Rat took Damone�
�s advice but, being a dweeb, got it wrong. During his ill-fated date with the ingenue Stacy—portrayed by the fetching Jennifer Jason Leigh—Rat played the wrong side of the wrong album.”

  “This is going somewhere?”

  “This reference forces me to acknowledge Nolan’s genius. The album Rat used wasn’t Zeppelin’s fourth album but Physical Graffiti. And the song heard playing during the date is not the make-out classic “Stairway to Heaven” but the far superior “Kashmir.” Nolan is heading for Kashmir.”

  “Can you show me where?” Donoher asked.

  Grin nodded. “Display previous view.”

  The hologram dissolved and then reformed to display a three-dimensional view of the troubled Indian state of Jammu and Kashmir. Black lines snaked through the mountainous region, defining the internationally recognized borders. Thinner, dashed lines identified militarized lines of control around disputed territory encroached upon by Pakistan and China. Starting high in the glaciers of western Tibet, the Indus flowed northwest through Kashmir and into Pakistan.

  “What you’re looking at is an area roughly the size of Michigan,” Grin explained, “and where it abuts China is about as long as the shoreline from Toledo to Mackinaw City. Biggest difference, aside from the lack of fudge, is obviously the terrain. Where China touches Kashmir is a region called Ladakh.”

  “Where do you think he’ll cross?”

  “A couple of large valleys run diagonally from Tibet through Ladakh—the Indus runs down the middle of the larger one. If I had to guess, I think he’d let the geography lead him out of China.”

  “Is there any place nearby where we can land an aircraft?”

  “At Leh,” Grin answered. “It’s the heart of Ladakh and the only commercial airport.”

  “Once they’re across the border, they’ll be in India, but illegally and without documentation,” Donoher mused, “and with the exception of Nolan, all looking very much like Chinese soldiers.”

  “Or asylum seekers. Do you think India would send Yin back?”

  “I doubt it—India and China are not the best of neighbors—but by the same token we don’t want the Indians tossing our people in jail either. We need to place somebody in Kashmir to help smooth things over once they arrive. And we probably need a friendly word through the back channel from Washington to tilt the situation in our favor.”

  “Barnett?”

  Donoher nodded. “Please ask Sister Deborah to set up a video conference with him in an hour. In the meantime, I need to enlist Cardinal Velu for some help.”

  55

  TIBET November 1

  The first hint of dawn painted a line of deep blue across the eastern horizon and erased the faintest stars from the heavens. The waxing crescent moon hung just above the jagged mountains to the west as if waiting for sunrise before dropping from view. Kilkenny was at the controls, piloting BAT-1 over some of the world’s most breathtaking scenery, regretting that his view was filtered through the greens and blacks of night vision.

  “I have the new numbers,” Han announced.

  “How bad?” Kilkenny asked.

  “We took a big hit from that headwind over the plateau.”

  “I know,” Kilkenny said. “We’re supposed to be in India by now. Any good news?”

  “We’re starting to make up some of the lost time.”

  “Enough to get us across the border before dawn?”

  “It will be close, but if we get some good wind on our tail in the last valley, we might make it.”

  “You ready to take the stick again?” Kilkenny asked.

  “Yeah, and thanks for the break,” Han said. “My shoulders were sore as hell after fighting that wind.”

  “Get us across that border, and I’ll find a nice Indian masseuse to work you over,” Kilkenny promised.

  “I always work better with an incentive.”

  “Can I have one too?” Gates squawked from BAT-2, his request parroted by the rest of the warriors.

  “Gentlemen, as we are in a very real sense ‘on a mission from God’”—here Kilkenny did his dead-on imitation of Dan Aykroyd’s mantra in The Blues Brothers—“I cannot in good conscience promise you an all-expense-paid trip to the Kama Sutra Spa and Fornicatorium.”

  Low groans filled Kilkenny’s ears.

  “I will, however, gladly authorize a real masseuse to remove the damage inflicted on our joints and muscles by these long flights and an open bar to provide nourishment of a spiritual nature.”

  “Hoo-yah!” bellowed Gates, Chun, and Chow above the chorus of other positive if not profane responses.

  Kilkenny knew the feeling. The men were getting excited as the mission neared completion.

  “Comm, two-way Kilkenny,” Tao said.

  The voices in Kilkenny’s ears faded.

  “Nolan,” Tao said, “take a look at Yin.”

  Kilkenny looked over his shoulder and saw Yin reclined in his seat, arms folded across his chest, still and quiet.

  “Is he—”

  “Sleeping,” Tao cut him off. “I checked and he’s sound asleep. He hasn’t stirred in hours.”

  “Good for him.”

  “So we’re close to the border?” Tao asked.

  “Yeah, I just hope we cross it before dawn. Otherwise we’ll have to put down.”

  “When will you know?”

  “Within the hour. If he were awake, I’d ask him to pray for a steady tailwind.”

  56

  Woo Sun studied the landscape below, a mixture of sharp peaks and undulating forms rendered even more surreal by the night-vision goggles that allowed him to fly so close to the ground in low light. His right hand was on the pickle stick of a Harbin WZ-9 attack helicopter—a Chinese variant of the Eurocopter Dauphin II. It was one of sixty flown by the PLA’s Aviation Corps, and nearly all of them had been rushed into service along the western border the previous day.

  To Woo’s right sat his weapons operator, Gong Yuan. The two men had trained together for three years, logging thousands of hours in a variety of flight conditions. They knew every sound the WZ-9 made and could tell how the twin turboshaft engines were performing by their vibration through the airframe.

  Both men scanned the valley, searching for three low-flying aircraft with fixed wings scalloped like those of a bat. Woo had laughed at the description of their quarry, but not at their orders should they locate them. The enemy aircraft were to be shot down and all aboard killed.

  The intelligence officer who briefed the crews of Woo’s squadron reported that the enemy aircraft was designed for stealthy insertion and removal of special forces personnel. It was a lightweight, slow-moving craft that featured an open fuselage and a negligible radar cross-section. To Woo’s and Gong’s satisfaction, their prey was also reportedly unarmed.

  Woo and Gong had flown out of Tianshuihai and were patrolling a section of the border where China abutted the Indian state of Jammu and Kashmir, including the disputed region of Askai Chin that was under Chinese control.

  “Could you imagine being posted to this place?” Gong asked.

  “I’d give a city boy like you a week before you sucked on your pistol.”

  “Qin wode pigu,” Gong replied, profanely suggesting that Woo kiss his posterior.

  Woo followed a valley southwest out of Changmar heading toward Bar—a village on the northern shore of the Tibetan lake of Bangong Co. There, mountain streams collected in the narrow strip of briny water that stretched one hundred and thirty kilometers. The western quarter of the long, thin lake lay on the Indian side of the border, where it was called Pangong Tso. Water flowed from Bangong Co into the Shyok River, then on to the Indus River before turning south through Pakistan toward the sea.

  “CROSSING EIGHTY DEGREES EAST LONGITUDE,” Han announced, “and in a few moments you should see the eastern end of Bangong Co. As we begin our descent into India, I remind you that smoking on this flight is prohibited and to please put seats and tray tables in the upright position. Again,
thank you for flying Night Stalker Air.”

  Yin looked around trying to determine how to adjust his seat as Han requested.

  “It’s a joke,” Tao explained. “The kind of thing you would hear every time you flew in a commercial jet. Those planes have a few more amenities than our BATs.”

  “Maybe, but our view is better,” Han countered.

  More stars had faded from the predawn sky, and the moon winked at them from behind passing mountain peaks as they flew low through the valley. Numbers flicked by on Kilkenny’s heads-up display—speed, position, distance to waypoint, and time—and the moment for a decision had arrived.

  “Team comms on,” Kilkenny said. “Bad news, people. Looks like we’re going to spend another day in China. We’ve got a clear sky and about an hour of flying time before we reach the border. Sunup’s in twenty and we’re losing dark fast.”

  A chorus of disappointed groans answered Kilkenny’s report.

  “You heard the man,” Gates barked. “Same drill as before. Let’s find a good place to hole up. No sense getting this far only to have our asses shot off while trying to jump the border in broad daylight.”

  “Check it out,” Han said.

  The valley ahead narrowed where it formed the basin of the glacial lake. A thick white fog floated above the still surface of the lake, a distinct mass like a cloud that had fallen from the sky.

  “Let’s cut around it and look for an LZ on the southern shore,” Kilkenny said.

  “You got it, boss.”

  AT BAR, WOO TURNED the helicopter southeast into the canyon that cradled the narrow lake. He flew above the fog, the wash from the four main rotor blades churning the upper layers of the mist. The canyon widened into a bowl at the eastern end of the lake, and the fog spread out like a blanket over the water below.

  “I got something,” Woo said.

  “Where?” Gong asked.

  “One o’clock. Moving to intercept.”

  Gong scanned the horizon and spotted three distinct forms gliding above the mist.