The Secret Cardinal

by Tom Grace

  Yin disrobed and carefully laid the black cassock on the table. During most of his years as a bishop, he wore prison pajamas, and now he was setting aside the uniform of that office forever. He tried on the smallest of the three sets of robes and found the fit acceptable. Next he tested the white zucchettos. Beside the robes lay a brilliant assortment of pectoral crosses—beautiful works of art crafted in gold and precious stones. The crosses set out for him were superior in every way to the one he wore when he entered the Room of Tears, except one.

  He picked up the hand-carved wooden cross, kissed it, and looped the cord around his neck. Tears streamed down his face as he recalled Ke Li’s joy when she shared with him this most precious symbol of her faith, and tears of sorrow followed when he felt in his heart that she had died for that faith. Yin knew he would wear the martyred girl’s cross to his own grave.

  Yin reentered the Sistine Chapel as Pope Gousheng. Donoher guided him to a stool placed before the altar, waited while he seated himself, and placed the fisherman’s ring on his finger. One by one, the princes of the Church paid homage to the new pope. Outside, the crowd spilling out of Saint Peter’s Square exploded with cheers as a plume of white smoke rose from the chimney and the bells of Saint Peter’s tolled the news.

  An hour later, Donoher stepped out onto the main balcony in the basilica’s facade overlooking Saint Peter’s Square. The crowd quieted, craning to hear the name of the new pope.

  “I announce to you a great joy. We have a pope,” Donoher said in Latin. “The Most Reverend Yin Daoming, bishop of Shanghai, who takes the name Gousheng.”

  The crowd roared their approval at the announcement with shouts of Viva Il Papa. Reporters covering the event suddenly found themselves at a loss for words as well as pictures, because a man few outside of China had ever heard of or seen was now the supreme pontiff of the universal Church.

  Donoher stepped aside, and Pope Gousheng emerged from the shadows and into the light to impart the apostolic blessing Urbi et Orbi. For the City and the World.

  70

  BEIJING, CHINA November 2

  The flight from Tibet, inside the windowless fuselage of a military transport, was one of the longest Kilkenny had ever endured. After being retrieved from the shore of Bangong Co along with Peng and the crew of the damaged helicopter, Kilkenny had been taken to a military base where his injuries were treated. He was placed in solitary confinement in the base stockade. Aside from routine questions by the attending physician, he was not questioned. It was as if no one there knew quite what to do with him. The brief respite of indecision ended when a squad of military police led by Peng entered his cell and escorted him to the waiting aircraft. Peng spoke to him only once, and that to inform him to remain silent during the flight. The tone in Peng’s voice, though curt and official, conveyed that silence was in Kilkenny’s best interest.

  It was dark when Kilkenny, Peng, and the contingent of MPs landed at a military airfield. Kilkenny’s guards quickly ushered him from the plane into a nearby hangar. There, both he and Peng were provided with a change of clothes—the professional attire of businessmen. Kilkenny dressed slowly, careful of his wounds and the dressings that protected them. As he cinched the Windsor knot on his tie, Peng approached with a pair of handcuffs and the final accessory to Kilkenny’s wardrobe.

  “When we are inside the vehicle, I will place this over your head,” Peng explained as he showed Kilkenny the black hood. “This is to conceal your presence for where we are going.”

  Kilkenny nodded. “At least it’s not a going-away present.”

  Peng considered the remark for a moment, then shook his head. “My orders are only to deliver you.”

  Kilkenny sat with Peng in the rear seat of a black SUV. The windows surrounding him were thick and darkly smoked, and the doors closed with the weighty thunk of armor plating. When the motorcade was ready to depart the hangar, Peng slipped the hood over Kilkenny’s head.

  As the journey proceeded, Kilkenny’s thoughts retreated from the muffled sounds around him and the uncertainty of what lay ahead. Instead, he found solace in the memories of Kelsey. The bitter anger of his loss was gone, replaced by an acceptance of the tragedy for what it was, and a deep gratitude for the love he shared with her. Of all his life’s accomplishments, he was most proud of being her husband.

  Thank God, Kilkenny thought, then realized that was exactly what he was doing. His prayer wasn’t the rote formula of an ancient catechism, but a sincere expression of his thanks for a relationship through which he defined himself. For the first time since losing his wife and child, he found himself able to pray again.

  The motorcade came to a stop. Still hooded, Kilkenny was led from the vehicle. He heard the rustling of dry leaves in the cool night air and their crunch beneath his feet as he trod across a paved walk. Peng wordlessly guided him toward their destination. When Kilkenny heard the sound of two wooden doors close behind him, he knew he was inside a building.

  Peng brought him to a stop, and ahead Kilkenny heard a man’s voice give an order. Peng responded respectfully and removed Kilkenny’s hood. Kilkenny found himself inside a small, ornate pavilion. Seated before him was a stocky man with gray hair and a round face lined with experience. Like Kilkenny and Peng, the man was dressed in business attire as if the three were there to discuss real estate or the stock market.

  “Mister Kilkenny, do you know who I am?” the man asked, his accent barely detectable.

  “No,” Kilkenny replied honestly.

  The man nodded to Peng, who then leaned close to Kilkenny’s ear.

  “The man you are addressing is Wen Lequan, the premier of China. Be very careful.”

  “Premier Wen, it is an honor to meet you,” Kilkenny offered with a polite bow of his head.

  “Mister Kilkenny, Mister Peng describes you as a man of honor. Can I accept your word that I have nothing to fear should your restraints be removed?”

  “You have my word.”

  Wen gestured with his hand, and Peng removed the handcuffs. With an equally subtle gesture, a circular table and two chairs were placed in front of the premier.

  “Please sit,” Wen said, more an order than a request.

  Wen studied Kilkenny as he seated himself and noted he was favoring one side.

  “I understand you were injured as a result of your illegal activities inside my country,” Wen began. “Have you been well treated since your capture?”

  “Your doctors have treated me very well, thank you.”

  “Mister Kilkenny, as is the custom of your countrymen, I will be direct. You have placed me in a very difficult position.”

  “I take complete responsibility for my actions and freely accept the consequences.”

  “You are an American with ties to the CIA, yes?”

  “I am,” Kilkenny admitted.

  “But I presume that you deny any involvement by your government in this—” Wen paused in search of the right word, “intrusion into China and deliberate interference in our internal affairs?”

  “That is the truth.”

  “The truth is your actions are considered by some to be a hostile act against the government of China. My military advisers have labeled your assault on our sovereign territory an act of war. The question is, Against whom are we at war?”

  “Do you think the United States would risk war with your nation to liberate a political prisoner?” Kilkenny asked.

  “Your president, like his predecessors, has an annoying habit of inquiring about certain criminals in the custody of our justice system, but I am certain that the United States is at worst an abettor in this circumstance. In fact, I know you are here on the personal authority of Pope Leo the XIV.”

  Kilkenny carefully studied Wen but offered no response to the premier’s statement.

  “Peng,” Wen continued, “in your report following the recovery of the crew of Shenzhou-7, you praised Mister Kilkenny as a hero. Why?”

  “He risked his life to bring t
he persons responsible for that tragedy to justice. If I may, though his recent actions have violated our laws and territory, I believe his motivation was the same.”

  “Explain,” Wen commanded.

  “There are many who view the incarceration of Yin Daoming as unjust. Kilkenny acted with the sole purpose of liberating Yin and correcting this injustice. As with Shenzhou-7, he remains consistent.”

  Wen considered Peng’s logic for a moment, then conceded the point with a nod of his head. From the table beside his chair, the premier picked up a plain brown envelope and slid it across the table to Kilkenny.

  “Open it,” Wen said.

  Kilkenny unfastened the clasp and extracted a pair of eight-by-ten black-and-white photographs. The first, an old original print, depicted a class of dour-faced children with their instructor. The children were all dressed in identical uniforms, the future of the Chinese Communist state. The second photo was a computer-enhanced enlargement of the first highlighting the faces of two boys no more than twelve years of age. The boy on the right possessed finer features and a slighter build than his classmate, but Kilkenny’s attention was riveted on the clarity in his eyes.

  “That photograph is over fifty years old,” Wen said. “I am the boy on the left.”

  “And to your right is Yin Daoming.”

  “Yes. Yin and I shared a common childhood, but as adults our paths diverged. His path led to a prison cell in Chifeng. Mine brought me here.”

  “Yin had no regrets,” Kilkenny offered.

  “Of that I am quite certain,” Wen said, nodding his head knowingly. “This mission to liberate Yin was a costly one to you and your comrades, but in the end you succeeded. And now, those two boys lead over a third of the world’s population.”

  “Excuse me?” Kilkenny said.

  “Upon his arrival in Rome,” Peng explained, “Yin Daoming was proclaimed pope.”

  Kilkenny sat rigid in his chair, dumbstruck.

  “Which explains the difficult position I find myself in,” Wen added, “and why you are here. Within the hour of the announcement naming the new pope, I received a personal communiqué from my former schoolmate. He inquired about your whereabouts, Mister Kilkenny, and made clear his interest in your continued good health.”

  “So he doesn’t know you have me?” Kilkenny asked.

  “Your capture is a state secret. In the minds of those who collaborated in your incursion, you are missing and likely presumed dead. Making you disappear would be a very simple matter. Others counsel me to put you on trial and expose the Western conspiracy that violated our sovereign territory.”

  “If you’re looking for options, you could just let me go,” Kilkenny offered wryly.

  “That is what your pope suggested. There have been talks in recent years of normalizing relations between China and the Vatican, but only talks. The history between these two states is long and often troubled. There is much distrust on both sides, and this incident only promises to widen that rift.”

  “Pope Leo felt much the same after learning the truth about the tragic theater fire,” Kilkenny said. “And Yin’s escape is an affront to your national pride.”

  Wen nodded. “But unlike his predecessor, Mister Kilkenny, the new pope understands the importance of saving face. Instead of demanding your release in a public way that would surely demean China in the eyes of the world, Pope Gousheng has offered himself as a symbol of Chinese generosity.”

  “Yin’s arrival in Rome is as big a story as his election, and the media must be going crazy trying to figure it out,” Kilkenny said. “He’s offered to let China take credit for his release?”

  “A unilateral gesture of goodwill by the People’s Republic of China,” Wen replied, as if quoting a script, “honoring the long-held wish of the late pontiff and with sincere hope of improved relations with the Vatican in the future. Yin is a very clever man.”

  “He’s much more than that. Despite his long captivity, Yin bears no ill will toward the government of China. He’s forgiven you, and he prays for you. So all you have to do to get a humanitarian endorsement by the Holy Father of the Roman Catholic Church is quietly let me go and act like none of this ever happened?”

  “There are other details—the repatriation of the remains of your fallen comrades and the promise to preserve the site of the theater fire for a Roman Catholic church in Beijing.”

  “I might be somewhat biased, Premier Wen, but those terms sound very reasonable.”

  “My conclusion as well. Of course, this arrangement relies on all parties involved maintaining the pope’s version of events.”

  “To the best of my recollection,” Kilkenny replied, “I’ve spent the past month in Rome working on a small project for the Vatican Library.”

  “Excellent. Peng, the arrangements have been made. You are to escort Mister Kilkenny to Rome.”

  “Yes, Premier,” Peng replied.

  “One final thought before you leave China, Mister Kilkenny. My acceptance of the pope’s offer in no way lessens my outrage at what you have done. Once you leave China, you are never to return. Now go.”

  Kilkenny and Peng stood, and both offered a respectful bow to Wen, who dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Outside the pavilion, one of the premier’s aides handed Peng a folio containing travel documents and the itinerary for transporting Kilkenny to Rome.

  “Do I still have to wear the hood?” Kilkenny asked as he stepped into the black SUV.

  “No, you are a free man.”

  Even in nighttime silhouette, Kilkenny marveled at the beauty of Zhongnanhai. The SUV followed the winding road around the southern lake and out through the New China Gate. As the SUV cleared the gate, Kilkenny looked through the window to his left and saw barricades blocking the street, and beyond was an enormous crowd of people bathed in the white glow of portable light towers. Banners fluttered in the light wind, and people held up placards bearing slogans and images.

  “What’s that?” Kilkenny asked.

  “Tiananmen Square. Many people have gathered to celebrate the Chinese pope.”

  “And the government isn’t trying to stop it?”

  “No,” Peng replied. “The crowd is well-behaved and quite large.”

  “Since this will likely be my one and only visit to China, could I take a look?”

  Peng nodded. “I am also curious.”

  Peng instructed the driver to park along the street—the uniformed police on crowd-control duty would not question a vehicle with government plates. As they passed through the barricades, the immense proportions of the square nearly overwhelmed Kilkenny, as did the sea of people who filled it to capacity.

  “There must be hundreds of thousands of people here!”

  “Estimates place the number at just over one million,” Peng said. “Similar crowds are reported in the streets of Hong Kong and Shanghai, and smaller ones elsewhere.”

  Chants and songs rippled through the crowd, some familiar to Kilkenny, others totally foreign. The throng immediately around them picked up on one of the chants, and excited youths pumped their fists in the air as if stoking the fires of enthusiasm.

  “What are they saying?” Kilkenny asked in a shout barely audible against the rhythmic chant.

  “Long live Jesus Christ!” Peng shouted back. “Long live Pope Gousheng!”

  Kilkenny listened for the cadence, then waded into the crowd with his fist held high, parroting the syllables. Like a cloud, the chant slowly drifted away as voices tired. Kilkenny and Peng were grinning with the people around them, taking part in the vast celebration.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Peng offered.

  Kilkenny beamed proudly. “Who would have ever imagined Tiananmen Square would become an extension of Saint Peter’s?”

  “Until now, a gathering like this wasn’t just unimaginable, it was unthinkable.”

  “Cause enough to be hopeful.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This novel is a product of th
e author’s imagination; however, the uneasy relations between the Holy See and the People’s Republic of China upon which the story is based are real and remain unresolved as of this writing.

  Fact: As a political entity, China has existed in some form for millennia. The People’s Republic of China (PRC) came to power under Mao Zedong in 1949. China is the fourth-largest nation in the world and home to the world’s largest population of 1.3 billion people.

  Fact: The significance of the various popes’ secular power has waxed and waned over the past seventeen centuries, but the line of succession for those who served as bishop of Rome has remained unbroken since the arrival of the Apostle Peter in 42 A.D. Ruling as an absolute monarch, the pope is the Sovereign of the State of Vatican City—a landlocked city-state with less than one-eighth the area of New York’s Central Park and a population of slightly more than nine hundred persons. Of far greater importance is the pope’s role as the spiritual, doctrinal, juridical, and legislative leader of the world’s 1.3 billion Roman Catholics.

  Fact: The PRC is officially an atheist nation, and religious belief is considered antisocialist. In the years immediately following the Communist takeover and later, during the Cultural Revolution, the government tried to eradicate religion in China. It failed in both instances. Despite periods of intense persecution, religious faith in China has persevered and, in some instances, flourished.

  Fact: Unable to eradicate religion, the PRC government has chosen instead to control the content of the message heard by Chinese faithful. Chinese Christians may only use Bibles printed by the government; foreign versions are illegal. The government also places onerous restrictions on contact between Chinese religious organizations and their foreign counterparts to guard against foreign infiltration under the guise of religion. Ironically, covert agents of China’s Ministry of State Security have been caught in the West posing as priests to cover their espionage activities.