Cardinal Bradeston turned off the television and dropped to his knees to pray; a moment later Cardinal Mendosa knelt beside him.
* * *
On the plane from Montreal, Dominique, Cardinal Hetre fell into an uneasy sleep, his soul in unadmitted turmoil. Only when he cried out did he realize the dread that had all but consumed him was part of his dream.
“Are you all right, Cardinal Hetre?” The senior steward was in his thirties, a good-looking man who obviously took his passengers’ care to heart. He bent over the Cardinal, solicitous and wary. “Is something wrong? You were…dreaming.”
Cardinal Hetre shook his head. “It’s nothing. All the coming and going. My body doesn’t know what time zone it’s in. I find it very upsetting. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed the other passengers. With Celestine and all…we’re shocked.” He thought he was babbling but could not stop himself.
“Can I get you anything? A cognac, perhaps?” On his first-class information sheet he had a record of the Cardinal’s preferred label, which he had made an effort to stock for the flight.
“Cognac?” repeated Cardinal Hetre as if he was not certain of the meaning of the word.
“To calm you.” The steward’s manner was as soothing as the drink he offered, his manner sincere. “The galley is busy right now. We’ll have dinner served in half an hour. In the meantime.…” The offer hung between them.
“Yes. Cognac, if you please.” He made himself sit straighter, sorry now that he had worn his cassock; in a business suit he would have been less conspicuous. What was it about his dreams that terrified him so? He could not bring himself to ask the steward if he had said anything, though he wanted to know what, if anything, he had revealed.
“Coming right up, Your Eminence.”
* * *
Not even Vitale, Cardinal Cadini could lighten the oppressive mood of the conclave. Cardinal Shumwoe spoke for all when he said, “This time we must not be hasty.”
“No, we must not,” agreed Cardinal Fiorivi. “I fear we may have erred before, in our zeal.” He looked at the others, his strong Latin features filled with purpose. “This time we must be…more attentive.”
Cardinal van Hooven, peering out of his glasses at the rest, added, “The Church is a worldly enterprise, Eminences, but for spiritual reasons. Let us not lose track of that; our goals are spiritual, not worldly. Our worldly power is only the means to our spiritual ends.”
“But it is the worldly power that demands more attention,” said Cardinal Cadini. “We must remember the world, for it watches us day and night.”
“Speaking of the world, Willie Foot was waiting for me at the airport,” said Cardinal Sinclair of Dublin. “He requested an interview at the conclusion of the conclave.”
Several of the other Cardinals nodded in response, and the ferocious, aged Andrew, Cardinal Aquilino of Chicago said with disgust, “We might as well give him some kind of pass to cover the conclave. He’ll manage to do it after the fact.”
Cardinal Pingari winced. “Please,” he said. “This must not be for the newsmedia or the entertainment of the world; we must do as we are commanded to do, and open our hearts to the Holy Spirit.” He saw Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung, raise his hand as if to shield his face; the last few days had been difficult for the outspoken and conservative Swiss. “Each of us must search his heart and soul.”
Hunfredo, Cardinal Montebranco raised an admonitory finger. “We know what we are to do, Eminence. We recognize the consequences of our acts here. You need not lecture us.”
“Are we agreed that the first two days will be days of silence?” asked Michon, Cardinal Belleau, who had been given the task of serving as conclave monitor, a function reestablished and redefined by John-Paul II. “And we accept Father Delvecchio in Father McEllton’s place.” He stepped up to affix his signature and seal to the document of conclave terms. “I didn’t always go along with John-Paul, but these reforms were a very good idea.”
Cardinal O’Higgins came after him. “I pray that after this conclave we will not need them again for a while.”
His prayer was endorsed by the rest.
* * *
Cardinal Mendosa rubbed his eyes and reluctantly looked at the vellum strip, anticipating what he would see there. Only a moment before he had cast his first vote, and for an instant he felt that other-worldliness he had experienced at the last conclave. Some of the sensation still lingered, a fuzziness at the edge of his sight, an unsteadiness of ground beneath him. His hand trembled as he set the crow-quill pen aside.
He stared down at the marks as a grue fizzed along his spine. There they were, the same characters as before. Very slowly he put the vellum in the foil-lined envelope and began to heat the stick of wax to seal it.
They had vowed not to speak, but most of the Cardinals could hardly contain themselves when Father Delvecchio came to them, much shocked, to stammer an apology about their ballots.
“Father Zirhendakru s-said the name—”
Cardinal Belleau gave a fatalistic shrug. “Is Chinese,” he finished for the horrified priest. “Yes. We know.”
Chapter 3
Over his morning coffee Fitzwilliam Ellery Jocelin Foot reviewed the notes he had made during the last few days. He had not yet shaved and his robe was knotted loosely over his pyjama-bottoms. The sunlight coming in through the tall windows made his dining table glisten where it was not strewn with papers. Beyond his small balcony Rome was warming up in heat and noise.
When the phone rang he retrieved it from the alcove and sat down once more. “Pronto,” he said as he answered.
“Willie,” said Cardinal Mendosa, his Texas accent at its strongest. “Are you going to be in for a while?”
“I can be,” Willie Foot answered, trying not to reveal the excitement he felt from the call. “I have to go out around eleven-thirty.”
“I’ll be there before then,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “I won’t keep you long. Promise.”
“Is this about the recessing of the conclave?” Willie inquired as innocently as he could; every journalist in the world was trying to get a story on the astonishing announcement that the Cardinals had elected to suspend the conclave for thirty days, and would resume their deliberations at that time.
Cardinal Mendosa answered indirectly. “There’s something we have to discuss. It’s urgent and confidential.”
Willie was glad he did not have one of the new videophones, for Cardinal Mendosa might be put off by his enormous grin. “I’m looking forward to seeing you.”
“I’ll be there within the hour,” said Cardinal Mendosa, and hung up.
Now that it was no longer necessary to contain his satisfaction, Willie gave a long, loud whistle. He put the phone back in the alcove and went to the kitchen to get the rest of his thick, dark coffee. As he sat down once more, he pulled up one of his many writing pads and began to make more notes to himself. He wished now that his laptop computer was not being repaired; he wanted to review the files he had on Charles, Cardinal Mendosa of Houston, Texas.
* * *
After a short hesitation, Cardinal van Hooven looked at Cardinal Jung, his expression filled with dismay. “I am an old man, and I fear I do not hear as well as I used to, Eminence.”
“You heard me well enough,” said Cardinal Jung as he came to the side of the Dutchman. “We must take advantage of this adjournment to agree on how we are to arrange matters for the Church.” He folded his hands piously. “We have an obligation.”
“We certainly do,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “We are obliged to carry out the Will of God. We have chosen the same Pope twice.” He leaned back in his chair and peered up through his thick lenses at his Swiss colleague. “Surely there is no reason for me to remind you of that, is there?”
“You’re confused,” Jung stated, his face darkening. “It has overtaken us all—the result of shock, no doubt. We have had much to contend with, and we have lost sight of our task.” He chose the largest chair in the room and
turned it so that it faced Cardinal van Hooven.
“Which is to carry out the Will of God,” said Cardinal van Hooven, his mildness unable to disguise his tenacity.
“Certainly that is what we must do. We cannot allow fantasy and caprice to turn us from that task.” He sat down, smoothing the satin of his cassock and crossing his legs at the ankle. “There are many among us capable of filling the Throne of Saint Peter. We must decide quickly which of us it will be.”
“It will be the one nominated by the Holy Spirit,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “That has become obvious, I should have thought. We must not assume we have greater understanding than the God we serve.” He permitted himself a slight, pixie smile. “Or do you want to vote again, so that we may practice our Chinese calligraphy once more?”
“Don’t make light of our predicament,” Cardinal Jung warned. “This is a crisis for the Church and we are failing her in her hour of need.”
“We certainly will be if we do not find this Chinese man.” Cardinal van Hooven removed his glasses and busied himself polishing them. “Of course we can repeat the travesty, if you insist, but we know already what will happen, don’t we? We will elevate another of our members and in a week or two or three there will be another conclave; the characters will remind us of our duty.”
“There are millions upon millions of Chinese. Very few of them are Catholic.” For Cardinal Jung, this was sufficient to dismiss the whole question. “It is ridiculous to mount a search when it is clear to everyone that the most capable men are here, ready and prepared for the task. No matter how devout this Chinese may be, he cannot be able to fulfill the office of Pope.”
“The Holy Spirit seems to think otherwise. Forgive me, Eminence,” said Cardinal van Hooven as he donned his glasses once more. “I must tell you what I observe: you hunger to be Pope and you are determined to have the Throne for yourself. I am sorry for it, because it blinds you to what we must do.” He rose, tucking his folded newspaper under his arm.
Cardinal Jung was rigid in the massive chair. “You do not intend to support those fools who have said we must find a way to locate this Chinese. Surely you’re more realistic. You are not a credulous simpleton from an impoverished country of superstitious people, you are—”
“A psychiatrist from Antwerp,” said Cardinal van Hooven with a gentle sigh. “Shocking, isn’t it, that I would want to accept the Will of God so readily.” His eyes twinkled hugely behind the lenses.
“It makes no sense!” Cardinal Jung burst out.
“If I were as ambitious as you are, I would probably think so, because I would see my chance to rule being snatched away from me, and by something so unacceptable as an unknown Chinese.” He rose. “You must pardon me, Eminence, but I am bidden to supper at the Russian embassy; it would not do for me to be late.”
“Russians!” Cardinal Jung scoffed. “They’re conciliating now that they have lost control of so many of their buffer countries. Remember that they are just like the bears that are their symbol: they can be taught to dance after a fashion, but that doesn’t get rid of their claws and teeth. And size.” His mouth turned down at the corners.
“As I understand it, Metropolitan Gosteshenko wishes to pay an official visit to us, and apparently this is going to be the first round of questions about it.” He saw the surprise in Cardinal Jung’s face. “I’ve met Metropolitan Gosteshenko twice before. I suppose that is why they chose to speak to me; with no Pope the protocol is less formal, but less certain. My Russian is not expert, but I can manage to converse.” His smile was more benign than ever.
Many things annoyed Cardinal Jung—rock music, Neo-German restaurants within sight of Saint Peter’s, European women’s fashions, television programs about birth control, the decline of academic standards in Catholic schools, abstract crucifixes, Protestant Christmas carols, Church officials in secular dress—but nothing irritated him as much as having someone leave his company before he dismissed him. He glared at Cardinal van Hooven. “If it is necessary, or if you must go, then go” he said grudgingly.
“Probably not in the same way food and shelter are, but—” Whatever else he was going to say was lost; Cardinal van Hooven slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him.
* * *
Out of his Cardinal’s finery, Charles Mendosa looked like a rich American tourist: his suit was a conservatively cut, understatedly expensive charcoal wool; his shirt was not white but ecru, of silk broadcloth; his tie, a heavy dull-red damask silk, was just the right width. At first glance he appeared to be wearing black shoes, but a closer look revealed black-on-black cowboy boots. Only his lapel pin proclaimed his position.
“So to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Willie Foot was (as he described himself) weedy, reedy, and tweedy. Their table at the restaurant was secluded enough to ensure their privacy, but Willie was savvy about such interviews and allowed the Cardinal to sit with his back to the room. They spoke quietly, and in English.
“It’s difficult,” said Cardinal Mendosa.
“Difficult how?” Willie inquired in the same tone he might have used to ask the waiter if the rolls were fresh-baked.
“Difficult internationally,” said Cardinal Mendosa, then sighed. “We have to get into the People’s Republic.”
“China?” asked Willie, continuing, “Get into how literally?” He knew better than to make notes, but he activated his palm-sized tape recorder.
Cardinal Mendosa smiled at once. “I’m not going there myself or I don’t think I am.” He glanced up as the waiter approached and ordered a fruit-and-cheese platter and a bottle of Lacrima Christi in excellent Italian. “This one is on me. And I mean me, Charles Ruy Mendosa, not my Eminence.” His gentle self-mockery was familiar to Willie Foot, who suspected that many of the Cardinals did not understand the Texan’s humor.
“Thanks. And you’re scaring the shit out of me.” He said it as a joke but he was concerned.
“I don’t mean to,” Mendosa answered, frowning at the top of the table. “No offence, Willie, but will you turn off that damned machine of yours?”
Willie Foot was experienced enough to conceal his surprise. “All right, if you’ll give me your word that you’ll let me have a proper interview as soon as it’s possible.”
“Done,” said Mendosa, relief obvious on his rugged face. “Thanks. You’ll get your interview.”
Willie thumbed off the tape recorder. “What is it, then?”
Mendosa did not answer at once. When he did, he pitched his voice even lower. “There is someone in Szechwan Province, near the town of Hongya, someone named Zhuang Renxin. We have to find him.” Unbidden, a face from his dreams filled his mind, and he made himself shut it away.
“What are we talking about?” Willie saw the waiter coming back with their order and signaled Mendosa to silence. As the platter was laid in front of them, he filled their glasses and repeated the question.
“The Church,” said Mendosa bluntly. “This is for the Church.”
“Really.” Willie was skeptical but not impolite.
“Yes,” said Mendosa. He picked up his glass but did not drink. “We’re at a disadvantage here. We have records of three priests still in rural China, but not one of them is in Szechwan Province. And we’re not sure how reliable these priests are. They’ve been isolated and one of them was in prison for five years.” He put his glass down untasted. “It would be as difficult to reach those three men as it would be to reach this Zhuang Renxin, I suspect.”
“Is this urgent? contacting Zhuang?” Willie asked, fascinated by Mendosa’s predicament; he resisted speculating beyond the minimum.
“Very urgent, I’m afraid.” This time when he picked up his glass he drank, not much, but as if the wine were vital as water.
Willie resisted his inclination to demand more information. He pondered the matter. “Does this need to be public or private?”
“It will be public, eventually, one way or another, and there’s nothing we c
an do about it,” said Mendosa grimly. “If we can keep it private for a while longer, I’d appreciate it.”
“I see.” In fact, Willie was more baffled than ever. “Am I the only person working on this? Other than you?”
“No,” said Mendosa. “There are five others, but frankly, I think you’re the best bet, or I wouldn’t be here.” He broke a small crusty roll in half and reached for the cheese knife.
“I don’t suppose you’d tell me who else is involved?” He knew before he asked that Mendosa would refuse.
“I’m sorry; the matter is very confidential. Very delicate.” Mendosa sniffed the soft, blue-veined cheese he had spread. “Wonderful.”
“Someone in Szechwan Province—that’s the central part of the People’s Republic, isn’t it?” Willie knew China well; he wanted to test Mendosa’s knowledge of the country.
“Hongya is almost due east of Chongqing,” said Mendosa. “That’s according to the most recent map. Hongya seems to be in the foothills of the Tibetan plateau.” He took a generous bite from his roll.
“You’ve been doing some research,” Willie observed.
“We’ve all been,” said Mendosa around the roll.
“Yeah.” Willie lowered his head so that Mendosa could not see his face. There were dozens of questions he wanted to ask, but knew better than to press the lanky Texan. “All right, why do you want to find this guy? What’s so important about him?” When he realized that Mendosa was having trouble framing an answer he added, “One of your pals have a Chinese skeleton in the closet?”
“I don’t think so,” said Mendosa slowly. “Not the way you mean. Not either way, come to think of it.” He finished his wine suddenly, impulsively, and refilled his glass. “But during this…recess of the conclave, it is important we find Zhuang Renxin.”
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