The Secret Cardinal

by Tom Grace

  A loud whistle blast announced the train as it neared the twelve-meter-high Leonine Walls surrounding the Vatican. The iron gates that secured an arched opening in the wall slowly pivoted open. As it passed through the wall, the train crossed the border from Italy into the sovereign state of Vatican City. The section of track ahead was only 862 meters long—the shortest national railroad in the world. Once the train was inside, the gates closed behind it.

  At the end of the line stood papal architect Giuseppe Momo’s candy-colored Vatican railroad station, a building clad in green, pink, and yellow marble and adorned with sculptures by Eduardo Rubino. Though conceived as a place where the pope could greet arriving dignitaries, the station was rarely used to serve passengers, and its high-ceilinged gallery had become an ornate storage room. During his many visits with his uncle, Cusumano could not recall ever setting foot inside the station. Gagliardi had snidely dismissed the building as an overdone warehouse and bypassed it in favor of the Vatican’s more interesting sites.

  The train pulled up to the station, and Cusumano followed his fellow workmen out onto the platform. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the workmen, armed with hand trucks from the station, began unloading the freight cars. Much of what they brought into the Vatican was destined for the souvenir stands and duty-free shops. A clerk kept track of the boxes as they were brought into the station, logging each against the manifest, and all the activity occurred under the watchful eyes of a pair of Swiss Guards dressed in blue uniforms.

  During a break, Cusumano sat inside the station quietly drinking espresso from his thermos. He listened as his fellow laborers speculated with the engine crew and the Vatican clerk about what might be happening inside the Sistine Chapel. News reports indicated that the conclave had remained locked in session since that morning. Three times today, black smoke spiraled from the chimney flue.

  The workers took their time after the break, extending the job to the end of their shift with the hope of being inside the Vatican when, God willing, the new pope was elected. The boxes slowly disappeared until, at last, Cusumano trucked in the final load.

  As the clerk locked the station, Cusumano and the other men boarded the caboose. He sat alone in the front corner of the car where he had left his bag.

  “Stu cazzo!” Cusumano cursed. “My thermos leaked all over my bag.”

  Two of the workmen laughed at his misfortune; the others sat back with their eyes closed. Cusumano pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and slipped his hands inside the bag as if to wipe up the spill. The tall metal thermos contained three chambers, of which only the uppermost contained coffee. Cusumano had used the other two to smuggle weapons through security at the railway station. He deftly unscrewed the bottom of his thermos and carefully removed the contents of the bottom chamber. Piece by piece, the Beretta Px4 pistol took shape as he swiftly reassembled it—a procedure he could accomplish blindfolded in seconds.

  The whistle blasted a long tone, then the train shuddered and began to roll. Cusumano kept an eye on the two Swiss Guards through the side window as he attached the laser sight and, last, fitted the silencer into place. The rumble of the train obscured the sound of the twenty-round magazine clicking into place. As soon as the Vatican personnel on the station platform were out of view, he stood and opened fire on the laborers.

  Cusumano murdered the men with five quick, expertly placed shots. He slipped the pistol back into his bag, opened the rear door of the caboose, and leaped from the slow-moving train. His feet slipped in the moist gravel, but he kept his balance and stepped away from the rails. The freight cars screened Cusumano as he pulled himself over a short retaining wall and into a secluded corner of the Vatican Gardens. By the time the iron gates in the wall closed, he had concealed himself in the dense foliage where he would wait for Yin’s arrival.

  68

  The chartered Alitalia flight was outfitted like the presidential suite of a luxury hotel, and the four weary travelers were fed well and had all their needs attended to. The aircraft made its final descent into Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci—Ciampino airport just before ten o’clock in the evening. It had been overcast and rainy in the Eternal City most of the day, but the skies cleared at sunset and the heavens were full of stars. Yin slept through much of the long flight, but when the pilot announced their impending arrival, he woke and stared down at the city, catching his first glimpse of the illuminated dome of Saint Peter’s.

  As a bishop, Yin was required to visit the Vatican every five years to report on the state of his diocese. Due to his incarceration, it was a trip he never made. Now, Yin anticipated at long last fulfilling his episcopal duty. Since he would be unable to return to his See in China, he wondered what new assignment might be offered.

  Heavenly Father, Yin prayed, I ask only for a small parish in need of a priest.

  After landing, the aircraft taxied past the international terminal and pulled directly into a large hangar used by the airline to service its fleet. After the hangar doors were closed, the passengers and their Swiss Guard escort deplaned in privacy.

  Tao, Gates, and Han stepped down the gangway, each wearing a new suit of clothes—a tailor on board customized the fit during the long flight from India. The tailor had also brought enough suits to outfit another eight men. Yin wore a new black cassock piped in amaranth red, with Ke Li’s cross displayed openly on his chest.

  As they waited for a car, Tao stepped over to the tailor’s rack and looked at the collection of unused suits. She found a garment bag tagged with Kilkenny’s name and zipped it open. Inside, she found a classic wool pinstripe suit with a double-breasted jacket.

  “What’s that?” Gates asked.

  “Nolan’s suit. He would have looked good in it,” Tao suddenly choked back a sob. “I can’t believe I’m already talking about him like he’s gone.”

  “That’s the bitch about not knowing,” Gates offered. “But I’m not giving up on him, not with all he and I have been through. And if I have to go back into China to get him out, I’ll do it.”

  Tao embraced Gates and kissed his cheek. “If that’s what it takes, I’m going with you.”

  An airport shuttle pulled into the hangar. The travelers boarded it and were transported to a section of the airfield reserved for private planes and helicopters. There they boarded a gleaming white Sikorsky S-92 bearing the Vatican coat of arms.

  LUCIANO PAPIRI NURSED A DRINK in the satellite terminal serving international flights. From his seat by the window, he had watched the Alitalia flight land and taxi out to the service buildings without stopping at the terminal. Now, as the Vatican helicopter lifted off, he pulled out his cell phone and selected a preprogrammed number.

  “Yes,” Cusumano answered.

  “You guessed right. They just took off.”

  “Good.”

  Papiri ended the call, paid his tab, and left the bar.

  THE SIKORSKY RACED OVER the Eternal City and, after a ten-minute flight, hovered above the far west bastion of the Vatican’s medieval walls. The arrowhead-shaped projection of the Leonine Walls surrounded a flat expanse of ground that held two paved areas. Bypassing a smaller circular helipad set close to the tip of the arrowhead, the Sikorsky floated above the larger rectangular pad nearer the access road. This corner of the Vatican lay between the inner and outer walls and was dominated by the massive cylindrical form of Saint John’s Tower.

  The trees and bushes that lined the old walls rustled with the downwash from the helicopter, shedding tiny droplets of water collected during the day. Cardinals Donoher and Velu sat inside the first of two sedans parked on the access road, both vehicles guarded by a pair of armed Swiss Guards.

  CONCEALED BEHIND a thick grouping of trees and leafy shrubs that thrived alongside the medieval walls, Cusumano watched Yin’s helicopter arrive. He was still dressed in sodden coveralls, but had added gloves and a balaclava to his disguise, the latter also soaked with perspiration and itchy. He had concealed himself in the remote c
opse hours earlier in expectation that Yin would be flown to the Vatican rather than driven—the roads leading to the city-state were packed with the faithful on vigil. When word came that Yin would indeed arrive by air, Cusumano was relieved. The Swiss Guards were on heightened alert in response to the discovery of the dead men in the caboose, and Cusumano knew they would be out in force near the conclave.

  As the helicopter touched down, Cusumano gripped a pair of Chinese Type-86P grenades. He had hidden the weapons in the middle chamber of his thermos; they were black-market weapons the mafia profited from and now stood to lose if he didn’t kill Yin. It infuriated him that the Chinese had failed to kill a man who had been their prisoner for decades. Now the ludicrous and dangerously suicidal task of killing the bishop inside the Vatican had fallen to him.

  If I get out of this alive, Cusumano thought, the Chinese will have to pay me enough to buy a library of Gutenberg Bibles.

  The main rotor slowed, and the helicopter door began to open. Cusumano glimpsed the passengers through the row of small windows that dotted the side of the helicopter, then saw the Swiss Guard stepping down the stair. Yin was the next figure in the doorway and the guard turned to help the bishop deplane. Cusumano rushed out into the clearing. As he ran, he popped the grenade pins with his thumbs, then pivoted his body and swung his right arm around for a side-arm throw to keep the weapon below the rotor blades.

  Something bit sharply into Cusumano’s left leg just as the grenade slipped from his fingertips. The fifty-caliber round drilled a one-inch hole midthigh, ripping through flesh and muscle and shattering the bone. The damaged leg buckled immediately.

  The grenade sailed through the air, its trajectory a low, flat arc toward the helicopter. Too low. It hit the ground short of the tarmac, the soft moist earth absorbing most of its kinetic energy. It rebounded with a weak hop and dribbled onto the tarmac, where the ovoid weapon rolled erratically like a fumbled football.

  The guard at the foot of the stair spotted the masked figure running out of the shadows and turned back toward Yin. Looking over the bishop’s shoulder, Tao saw the man too, wrapped her arms around Yin, and pulled him back from the opening.

  Cusumano’s first grenade detonated at the edge of the tarmac. The weapon’s plastic shell all but vaporized with the blast, and sixteen hundred tiny steel balls blossomed out in all directions. The Sikorsky shuddered from the blast, but was distant enough to suffer no damage from the concussive force. Lethal shrapnel peppered the side of the helicopter, puncturing the thin metal skin. Dozens of fragments struck the Swiss Guardsman blocking the doorway, and he toppled forward into the aircraft.

  Shifting his weight to his good leg, Cusumano reached back to hurl his remaining grenade. The sniper positioned atop Saint John’s Tower fired a second fifty-caliber round from his AS50 rifle. The 660-grain ball projectile drilled through the center of Cusumano’s chest. The Sicilian’s heart exploded as fragments of lead and bone pureed everything within six inches of the entry point. The impact threw Cusumano onto his back, and he dropped the grenade as he fell. Seconds later, the weapon detonated in a spray of smoke and dirt, shredding the assassin’s body.

  “Tango is down!” Gates shouted. “Roxanne, you’re with Yin. Terry, grab the med kit. Once we’re outside, put your eyes on this bird and see how bad we’ve been hit.” He turned to the other guards aboard the helicopter. “You, speak English?”

  “Ja,” the young soldier replied.

  “Great. Help me move your man.”

  Gates leaped over the fallen guard down onto the tarmac, then quickly scanned the area for any other threats, finding none. The two guardsmen by the access road raced over to assist, with Velu and Donoher following at a slower pace. The injured guard cursed as Gates and his comrade gingerly carried him through the doorway.

  “All clear?” Gates asked as the guardsmen moved to assist.

  “Yes, only one man,” one of the guards confirmed.

  Han surveyed the side of the helicopter with the pilot as the remaining passengers stepped off. The fuselage was dented and punctured in several places.

  “How’s it look?” Gates asked.

  “I don’t think we are in any immediate danger,” the pilot replied, his accent thickly Italian, “but still, everyone should be a safe distance away.”

  “My thinking exactly,” Han concurred.

  The wail of an approaching emergency vehicle filled the air. Gates walked with Tao and Yin toward the two approaching churchmen. As Donoher and Velu neared, their expressions of concern melted into joy.

  “My Esteemed Brother,” Velu said, “It is so good to see you again.”

  “It has been far too long,” Yin agreed, and he embraced Velu.

  “Over all the years,” Velu added, “you were never forgotten.”

  “The Church was always my constant companion.”

  Velu pulled away, beaming with delight. “Bishop, this is Cardinal Donoher, the architect of your liberation.”

  Yin moved in front of the camerlengo and bowed to kiss his ring. Donoher flushed with embarrassment at the gesture, feeling inadequate to be in the presence of the revered bishop of Shanghai.

  “Your Eminence,” Yin said, “Nolan Kilkenny told me of your passion to win my freedom. For that, I thank you.”

  “Bishop Yin, I am humbled to meet a man of your faith,” Donoher replied.

  “Has there been word of Nolan Kilkenny?” Yin asked.

  “Nothing, I’m afraid.”

  “Then I will continue to pray for him.”

  “My prayers join yours. Nolan is family to me, and I look with hope to his safe return. Now, if you will excuse me for just a moment, I must have a word with Nolan’s collaborators.”

  Donoher took Tao, Han, and Gates aside. As more guards and emergency personnel arrived, the men assigned to Donoher took positions around Yin.

  Donoher spoke quietly. “This is where you part company with Bishop Yin. There are matters we must attend to with him that are internal to the Church. On behalf of the Holy See, I thank you for your efforts and your sacrifice in this endeavor. Simple words cannot express our gratitude.” Donoher motioned to the pair of approaching Swiss Guards. “These men will escort you to a private suite here in Vatican City. I apologize that I cannot be with you right now, and promise to join you as soon as I am able.”

  “We understand,” Tao said. “This is a difficult time for your church.”

  “For all of us,” Donoher agreed, “but even difficult times eventually pass.”

  69

  Donoher’s driver parked the sedan in a small square north of Saint Peter’s Basilica, and the camerlengo led Yin and Velu through a side entry into the Apostolic Palace. The corridors along the way had been cleared of all but the Swiss Guards, and the anteroom of the Sistine Chapel stood empty upon their arrival.

  “Why have you brought me here?” Yin asked, realizing where he was. “I am only a bishop.”

  “In the heart of Pope Leo, you have been a cardinal for many years,” Donoher replied. “It is true you cannot vote, but you still have a role to play.”

  Donoher rapped on the door. Inside, the dean of the College of Cardinals ordered them opened.

  Yin looked into the chapel and saw one hundred and seventeen men in scarlet choir dress gazing back. Even the cardinals who had been too ill to attend the voting sessions in person were now present.

  Thy will be done, Yin prayed. He crossed the marble threshold.

  Velu took his seat, and Donoher escorted Yin to the altar. The junior cardinal dean left the chapel to summon the secretary of the College of Cardinals and the master of papal liturgical celebrations. Donoher and Yin stood with their backs to the assembled cardinals, gazing up at Michelangelo’s Last Judgment.

  “Do you know why you are here?” Donoher asked softly.

  “On the flight to Rome, we were told black smoke was seen three times today.”

  “There was only one ballot today, but we had to wait for your arri
val. You’ve been through an unimaginable ordeal, only to face this. I want you to know that you do not have to accept election.”

  “Just as Christ did not have to accept his fate at Gethsemane,” Yin replied. “But he did, and I too submit my will to God’s.”

  “The vote was unanimous,” Donoher said warmly. “As sure a sign of His will as I’ve ever seen.”

  The junior cardinal dean returned with the pair of archbishops and led them to the side of the altar. Both men were curious about the presence of another bishop in the chapel and assumed he was there in a spiritual capacity for the camerlengo.

  “It is time,” Donoher announced.

  The two men turned to face the assembled cardinals, then Donoher stepped down from the altar, leaving Yin alone.

  Cardinal Scheuermann, the dean, approached Yin.

  “Do you accept your canonical election as supreme pontiff?” Scheuermann’s voice thundered inside the chapel.

  Yin took a deep breath and looked out at the expectant cardinals. So many different faces, from so many different cultures and peoples. Yin remembered that moment in his cell when he first spoke with Nolan Kilkenny, and from his rescuer learned that the heir of Peter had sent him.

  “I do,” Yin answered, his voice clear and strong.

  “By what name do you wish to be called?”

  “Gousheng, after Saint Peter Wu Gousheng, a martyr for the faith.”

  “This way, Your Holiness,” Donoher said, shepherding Yin to a room off to the side of the altar. He stopped at the threshold. “This is the Room of Tears, for your predecessors have wept in both joy and sorrow at this moment. You enter alone. Inside you will find the white robes of your holy office.”

  Donoher bowed and backed away. Yin opened the door and stepped inside. The room was small and red in color. On a table he found three sets of papal robes. Each was a different size, as the papal tailors could not fit the new pope until after he was elected.