The Secret Cardinal

by Tom Grace

  The captain issued another order, this time without gesticulating.

  “Padre, any idea what he wants?” Gates asked.

  “I believe he wishes us to remove our hats,” Yin replied.

  Gates pointed at his helmet, then motioned as if he was to lift it off. The captain nodded. He scowled at Han, Tao, and Yin when he saw their faces, but seemed genuinely surprised after Gates doffed his helmet.

  “English?” the captain asked in a tone as much London as Punjab.

  “American, actually,” Gates replied. “Same with two of my associates. The third’s situation is a bit more complicated.”

  “That’s a relief. Dressed as you are, we thought you might be scouts for the Chinese army.”

  “You haven’t seen another American dressed like this?”

  “No, ought I have?”

  “We kinda thought he’d be here by now.”

  “Sorry, no sign of him here. Papers?”

  “We have none,” Gates admitted. “We sort of left the People’s Republic in a bit of a hurry. You’re welcome to search us and our boat—we’re not carrying any contraband. In fact, we’re carrying only what we have on. I’m sure a few phone calls will clear this whole thing up.”

  Just then a young enlisted man rushed down from the outpost. He ran up to the captain and snapped to attention with a crisp textbook salute.

  “At ease,” the captain said as he returned the salute.

  “Communiqué from Delhi, sir.”

  The captain held out his hand, and the young soldier placed in it a folded slip of paper. The captain pursed his lips as he read the page, then he handed it back and dismissed the man.

  “It seems we may be able to clear this matter up even sooner,” the captain said.

  With his hands clasped behind his back and standing ramrod straight, the captain strode over to Yin Daoming.

  “Sir, what is your name?”

  “I am Yin Daoming.”

  “Are you the Roman Catholic bishop of Shanghai?”

  “I am.”

  “Then on behalf of my government, and with the warmest personal greetings from your friend Cardinal Velu of Bombay, I welcome you to the Republic of India.”

  “Thank you. I have been looking forward to a visit with my old friend for many years.”

  “Then, sir, I will notify Delhi of your arrival and arrange for your transport to Leh. I believe Cardinal Velu’s representative is waiting for you there.”

  LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER, a Sikorsky S-92 civilian transport touched down at the helipad at Spangmik. The clean white craft bore a single emblem, a coat of arms consisting of a papal tiara above the crossed keys of Saint Peter. A small detachment of plainclothes Swiss Guards arrived and took formal custody of Yin and the others. As they prepared to leave, Yin approached the captain.

  “Captain, I wish to thank you for your hospitality during our brief stay.”

  “Your Excellency, your arrival broke the normal tedium of our posting here and provided a story that will be passed on by soldiers here for years to come.”

  “If I may ask a favor, please keep an eye out for our missing comrade.”

  “We will do what we can for him,” the captain promised.

  65

  VATICAN CITY

  “My Most Eminent Brothers in Christ,” Donoher called out from in front of the altar. The Sistine Chapel grew quiet as all attention focused on him. “I apologize for being unavailable to you yesterday, but I am certain you all made productive use of the pause in our deliberations. May the Holy Spirit continue to guide us in our work.

  “I have two items of news to share with you. First, Cardinal Gagliardi passed away yesterday after a long battle with heart disease. I was with him at the end, and his thoughts and prayers remained with us in this difficult time. I would like to offer at this time a moment of quiet reflection in his memory.”

  Donoher struggled to offer a prayer for a man he knew had betrayed the Church, but he left Gagliardi’s final judgment in the hands of the Almighty. After a respectful pause, he looked up at the assembled cardinals.

  “Regarding the matter of Bishop Yin, I am pleased to announce that on this day, the Feast of All Saints, our brother is free. I received word early today that Bishop Yin crossed the border into India. He is, at this moment, en route to Rome.”

  Several of the cardinals smiled broadly, nodding happily to each other like fans of a sports team that had just won an important victory. Others bowed their heads in thankful prayer. Near the center of the chapel, Velu rose from his seat and waited for the camerlengo to recognize him.

  “My Esteemed Lord Velu,” Donoher announced.

  “My Lord Cardinal Camerlengo, I believe I speak for all my brothers in expressing my joy at the good news regarding Bishop Yin. Sadly, I now feel compelled to report to you that a cloud has fallen over our conclave, a matter that only you can address.” Velu’s words reverberated in the otherwise silent chapel. “During our informal sessions yesterday, a rumor began to circulate among us. It started at first with a question, one cardinal to another, asking if anything in their rooms seemed out of place. Most noticed no disturbance to their belongings, but the question forced others to reexamine what they initially considered a lapse of memory. Among those asking the question, it became clear that an entire section of Domus Marthae Sanctae had been systematically searched.”

  Velu slowly paced as he spoke, his deep brown eyes meeting those of the other cardinals, his voice peaceful and certain. At the chancel screen, he turned and began walking back toward the altar.

  “My Lord Brothers, within the sealed confines of this room, I must now break my silence. Mine was one of the rooms searched, and in it something was found. Lord Donoher questioned me about a device that I brought with me into the conclave. I did so for personal reasons and with full knowledge that the Apostolic Constitution explicitly forbade my action, and for breaking my oath I am answerable to our next pontiff. But my transgression, though grave, was not what Lord Donoher sought. Now, with Bishop Yin at long last free, it is time for truth.” Velu now stood directly in front of the camerlengo. “I ask you, my Eminent Lord, to share with us the reason for your search.”

  Donoher stepped close to Velu, their faces mere inches apart.

  “Why?” Donoher asked in a whisper that barely concealed his anger.

  “I am sorry to force your hand,” Velu replied softly, “but to protect Yin, you must name his betrayer.”

  Velu bowed and walked slowly back to his seat, providing a brief time for Donoher to collect his thoughts.

  “My Most Eminent Lords,” Donoher began, “the searches that disturbed a number of your rooms were conducted under my authority as camerlengo and with the approval of the particular congregation. The first rooms searched belonged to the four of us who currently serve on that congregation as we are entrusted with the secrecy of the conclave. The justification for this action comes from evidence that the secrecy of our conclave had been violated with regard to Bishop Yin, and that this violation threatened not only his life but the lives of those who were sent to rescue him.”

  Donoher’s words hung in the air like a pall of smoke—the sanctity of the conclave had been betrayed, and the camerlengo believed a prince of the Church was responsible.

  “The search was part of a broad effort to unmask the person or persons responsible for this despicable act against the Church,” Donoher continued, “an effort that I am pleased to report has succeeded. The unfortunate breach is now closed, and we may continue with our work.”

  “Who?” Magni shouted, not waiting to be recognized, his face flushed with anger. “Who is the traitor?”

  “The answer to that question,” Donoher thundered back, “I will give only to the next pope.”

  Magni’s gaze remained locked on the camerlengo for a moment before he resigned with a curt nod and returned to his seat. Donoher wondered if Magni backed down so quickly because he believed the answer would be his in time
.

  As pope, Donoher mused, how will you react when I answer that question with the name of your closest ally?

  Donoher surveyed the room and again found Velu standing, waiting to be recognized.

  “My Most Eminent Lord Velu.”

  Velu stepped into the center of the chapel and with hands clasped bowed in a brief prayer toward the altar. Drawing on whatever strength he could summon, he stood tall and began to speak.

  “My most beloved and esteemed colleagues, when we first entered this magnificent chapel, we called out as one to the Holy Spirit for guidance, and for the wisdom to discern who among us would be the next shepherd of the universal Church. I truly believe that the Holy Spirit answered our prayers immediately. In his final message to us, His Holiness Pope Leo made known what was in his heart. And he, who made all but a handful of us cardinals, reminded us with his suffering why we wear scarlet. This color symbolizes our willingness to die for the Church. His Holiness understood this commitment fully, having shed his own blood to a would-be assassin’s bullets in Saint Peter’s Square and having suffered for the faith in ways few of us can comprehend.

  “We live in a very different world from the one that greeted the dawn of Pope Leo’s long and holy reign. The Evil One besets us on all sides, in ways both monstrous and cunningly subtle. The immense challenges facing the Church today compel us to select a man of great faith to illuminate the way of Christ, for it is only on that most difficult path that we can lead the faithful to salvation. To select a politician, a bureaucrat, a caretaker pope,” Velu locked his gaze on the other papabili as he emphasized the last appellation, “would doom the Church in a time of its most desperate need. Great leaders inspire by their example—that was the key to Leo’s success.

  “I am humbled that some of you believe I could be pope, but when I look in my heart,” Velu crossed his arms over his chest, “I know that it is not my path. At best, I would be a good pope, but the Church needs more. And when the need is great, God provides. He has done so now, but it is up to us to recognize His divine hand, to feel the presence of Jesus Christ in this room with us, and to act in a way of faith.”

  With a polite bow to the camerlengo, Velu returned to his seat. Donoher waited until all eyes turned to him.

  “My Lords, does anyone else wish to address the conclave?”

  No one stood.

  “Then it is time,” Donoher declared.

  In silence, each of the cardinals placed a ballot paper on the tables before them and carefully wrote out the name of the man they believed should be the next pope. Donoher folded his ballot and, looking up, discovered that most of the other electors were also done. Apparently, the pause for prayer and reflection did little to sway minds already made up. His spirits sank at the thought of another deadlocked vote, and the possibility that the election could drift inconclusively for a week until they reached a point where the rules could change. Then, instead of eighty votes, a candidate need only garner an absolute majority, just half the votes plus one. Failing that, they would have to have a runoff between the top two candidates. With an odd number of electors now present, the result of that ballot would be a new pope.

  Following the now-familiar ritual, Cardinal Mizzi approached the altar and, in full view of all present, deposited his ballot in the urn. One by one, the infirmarii cast their ballots next, followed by the rest of the conclave in order of seniority.

  Donoher exchanged a subtle nod with Velu as the Indian prelate passed by after casting his ballot. He had to admire the man’s selflessness in admitting his failings in service of a greater good. Would any of the remaining papabili have scuttled their ambitions so thoroughly?

  The infirmarii returned just as the most junior cardinals approached the altar. They presented the locked box containing the ballots of the ailing cardinals to the three scrutineers, who opened the box and counted the ballots to verify their number. The ballots of the sick were placed one by one into the urn.

  Donoher laid a clean sheet of paper on his desk and across the top wrote the date. Down the left side, he wrote: Magni, Escalante, Oromo, and Yin. He suspected Oromo would benefit most from Velu’s withdrawal, perhaps allowing the Sudanese cardinal to jump ahead of his two main rivals. The election was now just a game of numbers.

  Seated at the long table in front of the altar, the scrutineers chosen for today’s vote began opening the ballots. The first passed from Porter to Gensa and finally to Drolet.

  “Yin,” Drolet announced in a gravelly voice that rumbled with the seriousness of the proceeding.

  Donoher drew a short vertical line beside Yin’s name and wondered if any more would join it.

  66

  BEIJING, CHINA

  Tian Yi found himself once again within the red brick walls of the Zhongnanhai compound, seated inside the Qing dynasty pavilion before three of the most powerful men in China. It was a chilly fall evening, the air moist after a day of drizzle. As before, Premier Wen sat in the middle, flanked by President Chong and Minister Fu.

  “Is the matter of Yin Daoming resolved?” Wen asked.

  “Not in the way we desired,” Tian replied. “I received confirmation that Yin and three others arrived in India this morning. They are presently aboard an Alitalia flight en route to Rome. Of the team that engineered Yin’s escape, most are dead. One, the leader, has been captured.”

  “But Yin has escaped to the West,” Fu spat angrily. “How do you explain this failure?”

  “Had the security at Chifeng Prison been adequate, Yin would now be dead,” Tian replied, deflecting the accusation back at Fu, whose ministry directed the nation’s prison system. “Once they were at large, the difficulty in tracking the fugitives grew exponentially. We were very fortunate to intercept them in Tibet, but our luck did not extend to preventing Yin’s escape.”

  “History tends to repeat itself for those who are foolish enough not to learn its lessons the first time,” Chong offered. “Yin is going to Rome. If the last pope felt he was worthy of being a cardinal, we can assume the next will follow suit. Yin’s escape will make him as famous in the West as the Dalai Lama. And if Yin is named pope, he will become as vocal a critic of our government as Pope Leo was of the Soviets.”

  “Can the plane be intercepted?” Fu asked.

  “Are you suggesting we shoot down a civilian airliner over international waters, thousands of miles from our territory?” Tian asked.

  “Something must be done!” Fu raged.

  “Yes,” Tian said, “but what you suggest would brand China a rogue nation.”

  “It would bring down this government,” Chong agreed. “Of course, having Yin free in the West might achieve the same result. The first suggestion notwithstanding, I quite agree with Minister Fu that something must be done, and done quickly. Otherwise, Premier Wen, you may become the Chinese Gorbachev.”

  One of you will rule, Wen recalled, the other will lead.

  “What about our Italian partners?” the premier asked. “Were not their interests in line with ours regarding Yin?”

  “They were,” Tian replied.

  “Then explain the situation to them in terms they will understand. What is at stake here is far more valuable to them than a safe place to launder their money. The billions they earn each year from trade in Chinese opium and weapons are at risk. When Yin reaches Rome, he must die.”

  67

  ROME

  Cusumano climbed aboard the caboose with five workmen. He was dressed in boots and worn gray coveralls with a laminated photo ID clipped to his breast pocket. He carried a dark green sports bag slung over one shoulder with a tall metal thermos protruding from the top of the bag.

  The caboose was at the end of a three-car train attached to a small steam locomotive. The engine was something of an anachronism compared with modern high-speed diesel electric engines and magnetic-levitation trains, but the tiny engine was well suited to this particular journey and seemed an appropriate nod to a more elegant era. The train
sat on a siding at the Stazione San Pietro under a gray sky, and Cusumano watched tiny droplets of rain streak down the grimy windows of the caboose.

  With a lurch, the ancient locomotive began to move. It was, as usual, behind schedule. The tracks it followed ran northwest from the station, parallel to Via Innocenzo III and just outside the protective walls that surrounded the medieval city of Rome.

  Cusumano sat quietly, doing little to draw the attention of his fellow passengers. There was no regular crew for this run; the station manager simply selected however many men were needed to unload the freight once they reached their destination. Fortunately for Cusumano, this train was scheduled to run today.

  The sky outside matched the Sicilian’s mood. Earlier that afternoon, he received an unexpected visit at his bookshop from Mr. Chin. Their meeting was brief and to the point. Yin had escaped from China and was en route to Rome. In a reverse of their first meeting, Chin told Cusumano that it was now the mafia’s responsibility to deal with Yin. Failure to do so, Chin implied, would have more than a deleterious effect on their business relationship. The mafia dons conspiring with Gagliardi had decided the matter quickly, and Cusumano—due in equal parts to reputation, current involvement, and immediate availability—found himself pressed again into service as an assassin on an almost impossible assignment. In the parlance of Mario Puzo’s The Godfather, the dons made Cusumano an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  A kilometer out of the station, the train veered to the right on a spur built by Mussolini as part of the Lateran pacts of 1929 between the Holy See and the kingdom of Italy. The locomotive moved slowly along the track, as there was little point in building speed for a journey of a few kilometers.