The blessings were pronounced, the bride and groom kissed and the wedding was over. Cardinal Cadini watched as his great-niece made her way triumphantly from Santissimo Redentore, her new husband gazing at her in joyous apprehension. He ought to join them shortly, he realized that, but he was not quite up to it. He had to catch his breath a little more, stop wheezing, then he would leave the church. He braced himself on the altar, shocking the two priests who had assisted him and the deacon. It was getting more difficult to breathe.
“Your Eminence?” said the deacon as he approached Cardinal Cadini. “They’re waiting.”
Cardinal Cadini nodded once, twice, and motioned the deacon away. He was panting now, but none of the air seemed to be reaching his lungs or his brain. He could hear the hurtful bray in his throat as he sought oxygen.
“Are you all right, Eminence?” the deacon persisted. “If you’ll forgive me for mentioning it, your color is pasty, and I—” He stopped as Cardinal Cadini collapsed.
* * *
All through the night he had seen the same thing, over and over: the luminous Asian face under the Papal tiara, and the light, preternatural light everywhere. A joy that was so intense it surpassed pain held him in that eternal moment when the world suffused with light, and when it faded from his sleeping sight he longed for it. Cardinal Mendosa woke earlier than his usual early hour, his body slick with sweat. He sponged himself off, drew on a simple dark robe and spent forty minutes on his knees praying, hoping that the things he had seen would vanish, would fracture or thaw or fade, or that the tremendous light would return. The images remained as they had been from the start, as sharp as the best photography. Only a dozen times in his life had he had visions, but each had been so specific, so utterly clear that it was unmistakable for dreaming, and of the dozen, this was far and away the clearest, most complete of all. It would be a simple thing to know in Hongya if this widow was the woman they were seeking: he would know the instant he saw her, as he had been seeing her face every night for months.
“You awake, Charles?” called Willie Foot from the hall. “We’ve got to get moving. Nigel wants to be off in half an hour. He’s arranging for breakfast.”
“Good,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he hurried to dress, pulling on his controversial cowboy boots just before he picked up his bag and left the room. He caught a glimpse of luminous green in the garden beyond the blind-covered windows, and for an instant wanted to have a walk through it, for the beauty and tranquility he always found in gardens.
“Charles?” Willie persisted.
He stepped into the hall, and replying in his broadest Texas accent, said, “Stop hollering, boy, before you bring the Comanches down on us,” and was relieved when Willie laughed.
* * *
Behind the reporter was a panorama of Saint Peter’s. In front of him, Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme listened to him courteously, then answered, “No, I don’t think Cardinal Cadini’s health will be an issue in the conclave when we resume in a week. From what I have been told, he will be sufficiently recovered by then to be able to attend all functions. Of course his physician will be constantly available, if it is necessary for him to receive any treatment.” In his dark street clothes, he looked very much like a successful industrialist; he wore his Cardinal’s lapel pin discreetly.
Gordon Mennell looked to his other guest on the right side of the table. “Reverend Williamson, you have been highly critical of the Catholic Church for a number of years. With these recent developments, what is your view on the forthcoming resumption of the conclave?” Mennell’s smile, vulpine and smug, anticipated carnage.
Reverend Williamson was sleek with success and his manner was as gracious as a high-ticket jeweler. “I am certain,” he said, looking Mennell straight in the eye, “that Christians everywhere are aware that these proceedings are political in nature, as has been the case for centuries. I am certain,” he went on with a slight nod to the camera, “that all but the most blindly devout can see that the purpose of these delays is to permit the Cardinals to poll their Bishops and priests before resuming the conclave, in order to make the most publicly acceptable man Pope. And I am also certain,” he said, winding up for his main point, “that no matter what the choice of the College of Cardinals may be, the Christians of the world will recognize it for the political decision it is.” He turned to Cardinal Gemme with a smile as insincere as his teeth were white.
Cardinal Gemme could not match Reverend Williamson’s high gloss, but he was an experienced media hand in his own right; he remained unflustered. “I’m the first to agree that the Church has been influenced by politics; history is full of such incidents. Politics is the way of the world, and the Church operates in the world for the Glory of God. We have an obligation to respond to the needs of the world, as Our Lord commanded us to do. We Cardinals would not be in a position to advise the Pope—this Pope—if we were not aware of politics, and if we made such an attempt our advice would not be well-considered. We are men, living in the world, but we are Cardinals for God’s Holy Roman Catholic Church: in matters of faith and the spirit, we are required by our holy vows to place God above all other considerations in our lives. With this new Pope, we are as newborn lambs.” He could see that Reverend Williamson wanted to interrupt, so he spoke more quickly. “When we meet in conclave, we, as men, consider the political implications of the election of the Pope. We would be irresponsible not to do so. Then we pray the Holy Spirit will reveal to us the one chosen by God to lead His Church. That is the very essence of our duty, not only to God, but to Catholics the world over, for if they are not guided by God’s choice, we have failed ourselves and them utterly.”
Ordinarily such a declaration would have swung the discussion in his favor, but Reverend Williamson was ready for him, and pounced. “You’re making some pretty big assumptions there, Your Eminence. You’re assuming that you, no matter how far you have risen in the Church, can know the wishes of God. That’s pride, Cardinal Gemme, plain and simple, thinking that you can know God. God is infinite, omnipotent, omniscient. What man is capable of knowing that, or aspiring to know it? In my church we preach personal experience of God, the rebirth in Christ promised in Scripture.”
Cardinal Gemme nodded. “Any man who is ordained knows that experience of God. That is the test, the way of determining that you are called of God. Those who enter Orders shape their entire lives to answering that call. There are others who depend on those who serve God to bring Him to them, so that they can reach Him. To see God in the face is the promise of Christianity.”
Reverend Williamson flashed his famous, pious smile. “Yes. Yes, it is what we are promised. And it is coming. He is coming.”
Before he could get launched on his theme, Gordon Mennell interrupted smoothly. “That comes to the heart of this discussion, gentlemen. With the millennium drawing to the close, what is the impact going to be on Christianity?”
“Impact?” Reverend Williamson thundered. “The return of Jesus will transform the world, and bring the Kingdom of God to men a last. The long reign of Satan and his worldly servants will be at an end, and those sinners who have revered him on earth will serve him in Hell for eternity. Those who have been redeemed will find the gates of Paradise open to them, and God will welcome them into His Kingdom. It will be the Last Judgment and all men will answer to God. How can you speak of impact, as if the Second Coming were nothing more than an automobile accident or a budget crisis? How can any Christian regard the end of the world only as ‘impact’?” He was sitting bolt upright in his chair; if it were not for the table he would have risen to his feet. “This is the culmination of our faith, the vindication of it!”
Cardinal Gemme leaned back deliberately. “And if it doesn’t happen, what then?”
Gordon Mennell stared at the French Cardinal, for the first time unable to think of the right thing to say.
“It must happen!” Reverend Williamson insisted. “It is promised in Scripture!”
Now Cardina
l Gemme gave a wintery smile. “That is what they said at the end of the first millennium,” he pointed out. “Read the documents remaining from that time, and you will see that half the Christians of the world were prepared for the Wedding Supper of the Lamb. But one thousand A.D. came and went and it never happened. Why is the end of the second millennium any different than the first? Why must it be now that Christ returns? Because we need Him? We always need Him, every day of every year from His birth to the end of the world. But that’s the rub: Christ said He would return. But He did not specify a time.”
“It is foretold,” said Reverend Williamson sternly.
“Yes, it is,” Cardinal Gemme agreed with a pleasant suggestion of a smile. He watched Reverend Williamson as he regained his composure, then looked toward Gordon Mennell for another question.
Chapter 8
“They should reach Hongya by afternoon, probably after three,” the man reported to Dmitri Karodin. “They’ve had to detour around some road construction, and it is raining. If the weather had stayed clear, they would have been there by now.”
“I see,” said Karodin, pulling thoughtfully at his lower lip. He had sent two of his secretaries out of the office and disconnected his recorder, for he wanted nothing official to remain of this conversation. It was quite early in Moscow and the sun was valiantly striving to penetrate the dense high clouds which gathered over the city. “Has anyone attempted to contact them? Anyone at all?”
“Not that we have noticed. There is no mention of such attempts in any of the reports we have received.” He cleared his throat. “We have not had time to question those they have spoken with yet, but—”
“I am certain the People’s Republic would know if there had been such an attempt,” Karodin said, cutting him off. “What about the Chinese press? Mendosa is traveling with a reporter. Isn’t the press curious?”
“There has been no announcement,” said the man carefully. “And because this is not official, no one is being permitted to speak with Foot.” He hesitated. “If someone comes, I will have to hang up at once.”
“I understand,” said Karodin, who heard such warnings every time this man contacted him.
“It is dangerous, talking to you this way.”
Karodin did not want to spend precious seconds reassuring this frightened man. He took a sterner tone. “Have they made any stops?”
“Other than the necessary ones? No.” His contact was growing more tired and nervous. “The American has spoken to no one but those with him, and the English is always his translator. They say Foot speaks Chinese quite well, at least two dialects, possibly three. I should not be telling you so much.”
“Certainly you should; it is what you are employed to do,” said Karodin, a little bored at the man’s nervous greed which increased with every phone call. “You have the scrambler on, haven’t you?”
“They monitor for scrambled signals,” said the man. “Especially those of us in—”
“If you were not on Premier Zuo’s staff you wouldn’t be much use to me,” Karodin reminded him sharply. “And you would not have the extra money you like to squander on sporting events. Dish antennae have enlarged all our horizons. Refresh my memory, will you? How much did you lose on last year’s Super Bowl International?”
There was silence on the line, then the man cleared his throat. “I must have more for this. The risk I am taking—”
“You are in more danger from international bookies than you are from Premier Zuo, or the police, my friend,” said Karodin gently. “But I will increase the payment by ten percent this time—mark me: this time—because of the urgency of the request.” He coughed delicately. “Do you have anything else to tell me? Otherwise I suggest we terminate this call to minimize your risk.”
“So far as I know,” said the man quickly, “no one has informed Magistrate Zhuang of her coming guests. The Premier has said that he does not wish to influence her decision. He also does not want to recognize the Church.”
“Which also means he does not intend to complicate the situation. Very wise. I have great admiration for your Zuo Nangkao. He is handling this with great skill. Perhaps he will never have to admit it happened.” Karodin’s smile was open and charming, though no one saw it.
“But he is handling nothing,” the man protested, his voice rising.
“Yes,” said Karodin. “Precisely.”
* * *
Vitale, Cardinal Cadini sat in the hospital solarium, a blanket across his legs, his reading glasses perched on his nose. He was frowning over a murder mystery when the door opened and Piet, Cardinal van Hooven stepped into the sunroom.
“Do I intrude?” asked the Dutch Cardinal. He was in a dark suit with a Roman collar, having the appearance of a parish priest visiting Italy.
“Of course not, my friend.” Cardinal Cadini folded down the corner of the page, glancing at the bibliophile Cardinal van Hooven. “It’s a paperback, Piet.”
“It’s a book, Vitale,” said Cardinal van Hooven patiently. “How are you feeling?”
“Well enough to have figured out who the murderer is on page seventy-eight. I must be getting better.” His eyes smiled more than his mouth. “When they were giving me Extreme Unction, I found I could be frightened. I suppose I’ll have to confess the fear. I never thought I could be afraid of something so normal as dying.” He shifted in his chair. “Well, what is it? If you wanted to know about my health, you would have telephoned, as the others have. A few, I suspect, are sorry to hear I’m improving.”
“Oh, I would visit you in any case,” said Cardinal van Hooven mildly. “But you are right. I do have something to discuss with you.”
“And that is?” The keenness was coming back into his eyes now, a look that many had learned to respect over the years. “Come on. Out with it. Something is bothering you.”
It took Cardinal van Hooven a little time to answer. “I suppose I shouldn’t bother you with this yet. Your physician would not approve. But you have said you do not want to be left out, so I will ignore my better judgment: some of our fellow-Princes are getting restive again.”
“Let me guess—Cardinal Jung and his cronies.” Cardinal Cadini laughed, but the sound quickly turned to a hacking cough, then stopped altogether. He put one hand to his chest as if helping his lungs to work. “Pardon me. I haven’t recovered quite enough for laughing.”
“Do you need anything? Shall I summon the nurse?” Cardinal van Hooven asked, his concerned expression magnified by his thick glasses.
“No, of course not.” He took a deep breath and let it out very slowly. “There. Better.”
Beyond the glass the Roman sky appeared brilliant blue. “You can’t see the smog from here,” Cardinal van Hooven observed. “And yes, you are right about Sylvestre Jung. He is determined to prevent this woman from coming to Rome for any reason whatsoever. You know how fixed he becomes once he has taken a notion into his head. He has sent the United Nations Nuncio to explain the problems to the Secretary General.”
“Oh, God and the angels!” Cardinal Cadini swore without apology. “He’s going to scuttle the project. And by what authority does Jung send the Nuncio anywhere? The Nuncio serves the Pope, and we don’t have one just now. If the plan succeeds, then we might…but now? What can Gunnar Hvolsvollur do for us at this stage? The man’s an Icelandic Lutheran, and the United Nations can’t rule in.… We may need them later, but not now.”
“As we have agreed,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “But Cardinal Jung has changed his mind.”
“If he were not another Cardinal, I would be tempted to ask ‘What mind?’ but, under the circumstances, I won’t. He is my dear brother in Christ no matter how much of a pig-headed fool he is. How did he ever end up.… No, don’t tell me. I remember. John-Paul II felt he would help stabilize things in Switzerland with the Protestants, and he had so many years of service. He was a known quantity. Yes, yes, yes. And he advanced during the reign of Paul VI; we both saw him do it.” He stared ou
t the window as he gathered his thoughts. “No, you don’t see the smog from here.”
“He wants to end the recess and have our election by the end of the week. He is pressing for it with great determination. He has said we can agree in advance, now that we understand how unacceptable the alternative is.” He said it directly, watching Cardinal Cadini as he spoke.
“Gia,” said Cardinal Cadini, that single Italian word expressing everything from this is crazy to right to what else is new?
“And now that she may be found, this Chinese woman, there are many of the College of Cardinals who are wavering.” Cardinal van Hooven looked down at his hands. “Some of us remain firm, but not all.”
“I see,” said Cardinal Cadini. “How many are wavering, do you know?”
“A dozen, perhaps more. Cardinal Pingari is one of them, and Cardinal Fiorivi is another. Cardinal Lepescu has refused to commit himself” He paused. “And the news is threatening the whole recess as a media event. Some of the speculations in the news is very damaging, such as the suggestion that the election is the result of diabolical intervention, or that the College is demanding bribes to influence the various candidates, as if we were a Parliament. I think these accusations and innuendos, as much as other doubts, have taken a toll on us all.”
“Do you mean me? Do you think I succumbed to the pressure?” Cardinal Cadini asked, not needing an answer. “No, this was not stress, not that kind.” Something shifted in his eyes and his features softened. “It wasn’t that at all, Piet. It was a warning. God is…losing patience with us. We are failing Him. He has made His will known and we don’t like it, and like children we try to foist a counterfeit off on Him. My seizure was a rebuke for all of us; I know this as surely as I know liturgy. That Chinese peasant woman is the one God has chosen, and the one God will have, College of Cardinals be damned, and I mean that literally. The only reason I didn’t die was that I recognized the warning for what it was.” His face changed as he glanced at Cardinal van Hooven. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
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