Magnificat

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Cardinal Hetre folded his long, knob-knuckled hands and stared at the ancient Balinese sculpture at the end of the sofa. “Primitive, but with some power.”

  “It is the old storm god,” said Obata. “Obata-MacMillian have offices there, in Bali. We supply ships to the government of India from there, and for New Zealand as well.” He studied the Cardinal to see what response this information might bring.

  “You have offices all over the world,” said Cardinal Hetre, making it an accusation.

  “Yes. Our freighters are becoming the major design now.” He made no attempt to conceal his pride. “When we began, everyone said sailing ships could never compete with standard freighters, but”—he gestured to his office—“we are in thirty-four countries around the world and we have a two-year backlog on orders.” He beamed at Cardinal Hetre. Perhaps the Vatican was interested in shipping, or in financing a venture that required their ships.

  “And you have offices in China—the People’s Republic of China?” This slip annoyed him and his face soured.

  “We have ship-building facilities at Qingdao, a central office in Beijing, as required by law, with a repair center in Hong Kong.” He recited this as if the facts could not be learned elsewhere.

  “Yes,” said Cardinal Hetre. “I suppose you employ many people?” He could feel his headache gathering at the back of his eyes; he resisted it, unwilling to have it ruin his interview with Obata.

  “I could have the precise figures, if you require them, Your Eminence,” Obata offered gracefully.

  Cardinal Hetre shook his head twice. “No. No, that’s all right,” he said. “I don’t think that would.…” He shifted his position so that he was facing Obata squarely. “It is a very awkward thing,” he confided at last.

  “What is, Your Eminence?” asked Cyril Obata.

  “This predicament.” He shook his head once more. “You see, it has become necessary for the Church to locate a man in China, and to do it without attempting the usual diplomatic rigmarole that often develops when the Church has to deal with countries…not affiliated to her. You know how the People’s Republic views the Vatican.” He put his hand to his forehead, then lowered it, staring at his fingers. “As we are both Canadians, I hoped you might be willing to provide us with a little discreet assistance, unofficially of course.”

  Of the many things Cyril Obata had anticipated, this hedging request was not among them. “What do you need me to do?” he asked, thoroughly puzzled.

  “We wish to find someone in the People’s Republic.” It was humiliating to admit it so baldly, and he hurried on to rid himself of the chagrin he felt. “It must be done in complete confidence. I have to impress on you the need for acting in such a way that your inquiries attract little or no attention, certainly no more than is required for us to accomplish our goal.” Cardinal Hetre was about to continue when the door opened and Obata’s personal assistant approached with a tray. He looked away from his host. “It is a rare occasion when the Church finds herself in this situation. We could not anticipate these developments, or establish our own direct contacts. You must understand.”

  Obata’s personal assistant opened the wine and poured a sample for Cardinal Hetre, who approved it with the most cursory of tastes. “Mister Obata?” the young man asked when he had poured the wine and set down the heavy silver coffee service and Spode cups and saucers.

  “That will be all, Winston. Thank you.” He paid no more attention to his assistant, preferring instead to concentrate on Cardinal Hetre. As the door closed he said, “Please continue, Your Eminence.”

  “Is your assistant trustworthy?” Cardinal Hetre demanded, suddenly wary of what the young man might have overheard.

  “He is my assistant and has been for four years. If he were not trustworthy, he would not be in my employ.” He was short with the Cardinal, although he knew it was rude, for he was outraged at the implication that he would have unreliable men working close to him.

  “Of course, of course,” said Cardinal Hetre. “Well, I didn’t intend to give offence, Mister Obata. In the Church we have learned caution over the centuries, and the circumstances now are…unusual. The last weeks have been difficult, and the necessity to keep this confidential.…” He let his words fade to nothing. There was a hotness behind his eyes that made his headache worse.

  “Why do you want to find this man in China?” Cyril Obata made his inquiry as to-the-point as possible.

  “It…it has to do with the conclave and…the election of the next Pope.” He lifted his wineglass, noticing that the crystal was of the first quality. The shine of the glass was almost painful in its clarity. “To have so many changes so quickly—”

  “Will finding this man make it easier for the Cardinals to select who the next Pope will be? Some crucial information is required by the College of Cardinals that this Chinese possesses? Is that what you’re implying?” Obata asked, more bewildered than ever that Cardinal Hetre should be speaking to him. “I doubt there’s much I can do, though I am naturally willing to help. Why do you need to see this man in China?”

  “I wish I knew,” said Cardinal Hetre, his eyes bright with an emotion that was not quite shame.

  Chapter 4

  When the report came back to Jivin, Cardinal Tayibha, he heard it with a sinking heart. As soon as the priest in Nepal concluded giving his apologetic news, Cardinal Tayibha did his best to assuage the worst fears. “Father Hastin, you have done your work well. I am impressed with what you have been able to achieve in so little time. Few would have been as diligent as you have been. That you were not able to discover the identity of the man we seek in China is no cause for blame. Or for guilt. You have done more than anyone in the Church to discover who this man is, and you have done it with dispatch and without questioning the reason for the search.” Father Hastin, the Cardinal knew, had been a priest for little more than three years and was still caught up in the newness of his work, and in the need to prove his worth. “There was only the slimmest chance that you could have found the man. God asks the impossible of us only when He performs a miracle.”

  “But there was no reason for me to fail,” said Father Hastin, his words all but lost in a burst of static.

  “There was also no reason for you to succeed,” said Cardinal Tayibha. “You have my thanks and blessing and I will pray for you, as I hope you will do for me and for all the souls in God’s world.”

  “Certainly,” said Father Hastin.

  “Good,” whispered Cardinal Tayibha, and started the ritual phrases of farewell while he cudgeled his brain in an attempt to think of another way to locate the unknown Zhuang Renxin. As soon as he was off the telephone he left his apartments and went toward the chapel which had been set aside for his use, shared only with Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung; Tokuyu, Cardinal Tsukamara; Jaime, Cardinal O’Higgins; and Bruno, Cardinal Hauptberger. He found the chapel empty and was secretly gratified; much as they were each other’s exalted equals in the Church, they were also an Indian, a Swiss (conservative), a Japanese, a Mexican, and an Austrian (liberal), which was not always comfortable. As he knelt before the altar, he prayed for knowledge so that the importance of this man in Szechwan Province would become clear, for then he would have something other than disappointment to report to the rest that evening.

  * * *

  As he dialed the number, Willie Foot held his breath, as he always did using the Italian telephone system, although this time there was an added tension that had more than the idiosyncratic telephone to fuel it. Service was not quite so capricious on international calls as Italian ones, but he had had enough experience to be prepared for he worst. To his amazement, the call went through on the first try. He hoped that was a good omen. He shook his head once as he heard the rings nearly half-way around the world. Listening to the rings, counting them, he rehearsed again what he would say, for he was calling a private line, a personal line, not the more public exchange where the ambassadorial staff might be privy to the conversation
. He did his best to pretend no one else would be listening to a private conversation between an Ambassador and a reporter.

  At last the receiver was lifted in Hong Kong and a voice that never failed to stir him said, “Leonie Purcell.”

  “Hello, Leonie,” said Willie, and held his breath.

  There was a pause; then, “Hello, Willie,” she said. “Willie. Willie. What a…I didn’t think I’d hear from you…so soon.” By which he knew she meant ever again.

  “This is business,” said Willie, doing his best to make the call wholly professional, and afraid—as he knew she was—that in spite of this precaution, there might be an eavesdropper who would hear more in their voices than information; it had happened before. “Listen, I know I have no right to ask, but I need a favor: I need you to find someone for me. Very hush-hush.”

  Her short laughter was not entirely natural, but only those who knew her well would recognize that. “A newspaperman asking me to find someone? Isn’t that all rather backward? What is the occasion?”

  “I’m following up on a hunch, that’s all,” said Willie, picturing the way the sun glinted on her hair, as if she were in Rome with him and not in Hong Kong. “I’ve heard about a man in Szechwan Province who is said to have some information that might be useful to some inquisitive clergymen. Sometimes a story like this can lead to bigger things.” He had not told Cardinal Mendosa he was going to call Leonie Purcell when his other contacts were unable to help. He suspected the Cardinal would not approve. He also realized that the request was little more than an excuse to talk to Leonie.

  “Chasing the scent, are you?” Leonie inquired with a little sharpness.

  “Well, what else am I do to, Madame Ambassadress?” He had not meant to challenge her that way, but the question came out before he could stop it. “I’ve been a journalist for a quarter of a century. It’s what I know how to do.” There were other things he wanted to say to her, but not when his words were being bounced from satellite to satellite with who-knows-whom listening.

  “And you do it well,” said Leonie, falling into the same tone. “I will admit that your hunches have turned out occasionally. All right; who is this person you think might have information?”

  “I’ll fax you the information on your machine. Within the hour.” He did not like the fax machine much better than he liked the telephone, but he had more security devices on it to warn him if his signals were being received by anyone other than the person for whom they were intended, or so the manufacturers promised. “Make note of the region—Szechwan Province, near the city of Hongya—and if there is any way for you to discover this chap, let me know at once.”

  She did not speak for a couple of seconds, which seemed to Willie to be years. “And what will you do in return?” It was as palpable as a gauntlet flung at his feet.

  Willie sighed and raised his eyes toward the ceiling, astonished. He had not anticipated she would want to resume their affair. “You’re right. I’m…obliged to you. May seventh and eighth, without bells on, for a movie of your choice.” He told himself it was an innocuous reply, but was unable to be convinced, for to him their code seemed clumsy and obvious.

  If Leonie shared his apprehension, she concealed it well. “Victoria Station, tea time. I’ll confirm in two weeks and we’ll go on from there.”

  “All right,” said Willie, committing himself to meet her in Hawaii in seven weeks—if possible—to spend a week alone with her.

  “Excellent. I’ll look forward to it.” So far she had maintained her brisk, efficient manner, but now she faltered, as if she might want to say something more. When she did, it was not what he expected. “When you send the fax, make sure the register is good.”

  “Be glad to,” said Willie, amazed that she would caution him against spies at his end, here in Rome. “Let me know if there’s any problem when it arrives,” he added, giving her the warning for her end as well. He wanted to continue talking with her, to keep her on the phone for the pleasure of hearing her voice. Instead, he made himself say, “Well, until May, then. Thank you very much, Leonie. I’ll try to arrange for premiere tickets.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she said softly. “I do love premieres.”

  Which, Willie Foot thought as he put down the receiver, is how you say I love you when you’re resuming an affair with a married noblewoman, and an Ambassador to boot. He looked out his tall windows, seeing the gaudy enormity of Rome, wishing only for a little more time with Leonie Purcell. “You’re forty-seven years old, chum,” he said to himself. “You ought to know better than this.” Then he went into the larger of two bedrooms which served as his office, searched through the chaos of papers on his desk, and started up his fax machine.

  * * *

  Cardinal Cadini summoned up all his world-class charm to thank Martin Bell for his assistance. “I am sure you have done more than anyone expected, or had the right to expect. If it weren’t essential to preserve our—the Church’s—confidentiality , I would never have asked you to attempt so incredible a.… The task was next to impossible when it was set and I know it may take a long time to locate this man, assuming he is still alive and our information about him accurate.” He would not let his voice sound disheartened, though he was deeply concerned.

  On the other end of the line Bell said, “If you want to try again?”

  “No, thank you,” said Cardinal Cadini with real warmth. “You need not. We will have to try more obvious methods, I fear. But I deeply appreciate everything you have done. I am in your debt, Martin, and you may come to me if I can be of assistance to you in the future.” He knew his gesture was greater than necessary but he had a truly generous nature.

  “Your Eminence,” said Martin Bell, now so curious he could hardly bear it. He made a number of notes to himself as he took polite leave of the old Cardinal, promising himself that he would get to the bottom of these inquiries. If Cardinal Cadini would not tell him what was going on, he would have to find out on his own.

  As Cardinal Cadini left his apartments, he paused to speak with Cardinal van Hooven. “Any news from your front?” he asked in English.

  “I fear not,” said the little Dutchman. “I am beginning to think that there will not be. That is a worrisome conclusion.”

  “We mustn’t abandon our work. Zhuang Renxin has been elected twice; we must find him or have no true Pope,” said Cardinal Cadini with heat. “What about the others? We know that Cardinal Tayibha hasn’t been able to bring us the information we want. Has Cardinal Hetre made any progress that you know of?”

  “Not yet. Our time is getting very short, I fear,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “It would be lamentable if we had to attempt direct channels and were thwarted.”

  “Yes, it would,” said Cardinal Cadini, nodding to Raoul, Cardinal Ochoa from Asuncion. “But we may have to set aside our sovereignty and resort to it.”

  They turned the corner and started down a Baroque staircase. “I am saddened to think that the Church has to regard candor as undesirable.” Cardinal van Hooven hunched up his shoulders as if he were cold, though the ambulatory was quite warm, and he leaned heavily on the bannister, moving slowly. On the floor below there were thirty of so of their fellow-Princes of the Church.

  “Very true,” said Cardinal Cadini agreed. “Occasionally I think it was wise of the Americans not to mix Church and State. We are both Church and State, and in this instance, it makes for—” He raised his hands in a display of aggravation.

  “It certainly does,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “Is there anyone willing to speak to Premier Zuo? Do you think it might be wise to ask for the assistance of the United Nations? It could make our predicament a little less delicate if we could approach it through U.N. channels. What a pity that Gunnar Hvolsvollur is a Lutheran and not a Catholic. He might be willing to deal for us directly.”

  “Surely one of the Catholic diplomats at the U.N. would do as well as the Secretary-General,” said Cardinal Cadini with more hope than certainty. They
were almost to the lower floor now, and one or two of the Cardinals gathered there seemed eager to speak with them.

  “Not in Zuo Nangkao’s eyes, I suspect,” said Cardinal van Hooven as they reached the foot of the staircase. “In any event, we must resume the conclave in two weeks.” He stood quite still for a short while. “Do you think Jung is mad enough to make us go through the whole farce again? He is trying to drive us to a hasty conclusion.”

  “Yes; and there are those who are saying that we are possessed of devils, and it is not the Holy Spirit but Satan who guides our deliberations. They claim that we are dupes of Hell.” Cardinal Cadini shook his head, and for once looked like nothing so much as a worn out old merchant, his liveliness and spontaneity having deserted him briefly. “Protestant nonsense and Catholic heresy, but I fear we will have to contend with it eventually. I have been asked very impertinent questions by the press, and I know there will be more.”

  “Especially if we find Zhuang Renxin,” said Cardinal van Hooven.

  Cardinal Cadini’s smile returned. “So I suppose we will have to repose our trust in God.”

  Cardinal van Hooven crossed himself.

  * * *

  As the shots rang in his dream, Cardinal Mendosa came awake with a strangled shout of protest. He thrashed twice against his bedding as if attempting to break restraints, and then he gave a short, shuddering sigh as he came back to himself.

  Sweating, his breathing fast and his pulse banging at his temples, he tried to lie back. A dream, a dream, he repeated to himself. Most Holy God, it had been dreadful. Not again tonight, he vowed. Not if I have to stare at the ceiling counting cracks until daylight. He could not stand to see it again. He knew it was folly to close his eyes, and when he did he saw once more the profile of the Asian Pope with head and face obliterated by bullets as he himself lunged a second too late to knock the Pontiff out of the line of fire. He stared straight up, trying to block the image from his mind, at the same time puzzling over the dream: was it that he feared the Chinese Pope would not be acceptable to Catholics, and that the Papacy itself would be destroyed? It seemed a possible metaphor, for he had never in any dream yet caught sight of the face of the Asian Pope; which bothered him, for in his previous experiences he had seen everything all too clearly. Surely it could not be a vision, for how could a Pope be assassinated in the middle of Saint Peter’s Basilica? That was the most inconceivable of all.