“The law as it is promulgated from Beijing,” said Daniel Crane.
“I am not personally privy to her decisions, so I do not know. Just as I cannot explain to you or anyone else how Magistrate Zhuang regards Communism, which is being practiced a number of ways throughout the world in manners that would not be incompatible with the tenets of the Church.”
“But not in China,” said Daniel Crane.
“So it appears; but access to the Chinese people has been limited for most of us, and therefore I hesitate to make a judgment on her position as a Communist. We simply haven’t enough information yet to address the matter.” He saw the feral light in Crane’s eyes. “And whatever her political position, I must respect it.”
“And what do you say to those rioters?” Behind him, clips of the riot in Manila—the bloodiest of the three—appeared; police clubbing demonstrators at the gates of the palace of the Papal Nuncio. “They are risking their lives and their freedom to do this; how can you defend the decision of the Cardinals in the face of that?”
Cardinal Gemme stared down at his hands so that he would not have to look at the screen. “A cousin of mine was hurt in Paris, during that riot. You need not tell me how passionately Catholics are concerned about this new Pope, or how deep their allegiance to the Church is. But I cannot defend the Cardinals. The Cardinals did not choose Magistrate Zhuang—God did.”
This was the opportunity Daniel Crane had been waiting for. He pounced. “Washing your hands of it, Your Eminence? How do you justify your power if you will—”
“Excuse me, Mister Crane,” said Cardinal Gemme, resigned to botching the interview, “but I don’t think you understood me. I said that God chose Magistrate Zhuang. That is the entire basis for the doctrine of the Apostolic Succession. If the Pope were not the choice of God, the whole structure of the Church would be a deception. In this election, there could be no doubt, for we elected her unanimously twice. Had there been a less conclusive indication, we Cardinals, of all people in the Church, would be inclined to doubt the election: God moved each and every one of the Cardinals to write the name of this unknown Chinese woman, not once, but twice. None of us knew her. None of us knew of her. Very few of us write Chinese. Yet there was her name from every Cardinal. Twice.”
“That’s unbelievable,” Daniel Crane scoffed, revving up for another go at Cardinal Gemme.
“No,” said Cardinal Gemme quietly. “Technically, it’s a miracle.”
* * *
Dame Leonie held out her hand to Cardinal Mendosa after bestowing a warm smile on Willie Foot. Here at the edge of the walled garden there was still enough sunlight left to give the fading day a soft, preternaturally blue glow; the evening was going to be warm and close. “It is a pleasure to have you visit again so soon, Your Eminence.”
“I doubt it, but you’re a sweetheart for saying it,” Mendosa responded; he was feeling his jet-lag more keenly now than he had on the previous trip. He hardly noticed the two Scottish servants who took his bags and Willie’s rumpled jacket into the building. “I fixed my watch at the airport, but I still don’t believe the time. Any word from Beijing?”
She indicated a path at the edge of the garden leading toward the lanai; Mendosa and Willie followed her along it. “Officially not yet, but unofficially I’ve spoken with Premier Zuo, just yesterday, and he informed me that he would not prohibit your visit to his country, seeing you have been there already. No matter what ignorance he claims, he’s been following this very closely.” She was too experienced to laugh aloud, but there was a sharper glint in her eyes. “He is planning to play you like a trout on a line.”
“Oh?” said Mendosa as if this were of no interest to him whatsoever. “Why do you think so?”
“Because he’s being too gracious and asking too few questions. That’s a dangerous pattern with him. Where Premier Zuo Nangkao is most concerned, he asks the least at first where he intends to garner the most in the long run. He likes to go slowly, when he thinks there’s a prize to be had. So if I were you, Your Eminence, I would—”
“You don’t need to use my title. My name’s fine while I’m here,” said Mendosa with an exhausted smile. “The way we did before.”
She nodded but was not distracted. “—be very careful how you deal with him. He’ll try to lull you into forgetting caution, or he’ll attempt to block you without being obvious about it, so that you will reveal more than you intended as a means of speeding things up.” She had led them to the lanai of the embassy compound; she slid back the huge glass doors and motioned them to come inside. “I don’t expect he will have word for us tomorrow or the next day. You might as well take advantage of the time and—”
“And learn a little Chinese,” said Mendosa. “I’ve already arranged for a short intensive, so I won’t be completely useless when we see Magistrate Zhuang again. I won’t be able to discuss metaphysics, perhaps, but I’ll be able to find out if her crops are doing well.” He caught the look of unexpected approval on Dame Leonie’s face. “Well, I do speak other languages than English, Latin, and Italian, Madame Ambassadress.”
“Spanish?” she ventured.
“A safe bet with a name like Mendosa,” he said. “Yes, Spanish, a smattering of French and German, and passable modern Greek. A little Russian, but not enough to do more than order a meal. I can swear some in Turkish. Does that surprise you?”
“Somewhat,” she said, and changed the subject. “I feel I’d better warn you that the press corps have been staking out the embassy for the last three hours. That’s one of the reasons we brought you in the back way. It is going to be difficult to get you out of here without someone noticing.” She lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry. We’ve been refusing commentary, but the fact of the matter is they know you’re here.”
“Do they?” said Mendosa. “Well, that will keep them all in one place, which is something.” He glanced over at Willie. “Falling asleep?”
“I did that a couple of hours ago,” said Willie, his eyes on Dame Leonie, his passion unhidden. “But I can fake passable conversation, if that’s necessary.”
Cardinal Mendosa shook his head. “Better wake up, then. I don’t think faked conversation is on the lady’s mind,” he said with faint, amused resignation. “You two go ahead and…catch up if you want to. I’m going to get some shuteye. You put me in the same room I had before, Ma’am? The one at the end of the hall on the left?”
If Dame Leonie was flustered, she concealed it very well. “Yes. And I’ve assigned Chi Xiyao to you when you wake. He’s had over twenty years as a valet; I think you’ll find him quite useful.”
“If I can try my Chinese out on him as the tutor works on me, fine,” said Mendosa. “Sounds like a good arrangement.” He started toward the hall, then stopped. “Speaking of tutors, this one’s named Wei Shenju. Brother Shenju, actually. He’s a Franciscan. He’s coming over from Macao. Should be here by the time I get up.” He concealed a yawn. “Well, thanks again, Dame Leonie.”
Willie stared at the parquetry floor of the enormous entry hall as Mendosa walked away from them. “I really appreciate you doing this for us,” he said, knowing they were observed.
“It’s all in a good cause,” she said lightly, slipping her hand through the curve of his elbow. “Before the sunset fades completely, let me show you something I think you’ll like. There’s an orchid in the greenhouse at the back of the garden that’s just coming into bloom.”
No longer sleepy, Willie met her eyes with delight. “You know how I love orchids,” he said, thinking that to him their code sounded so obvious, so transparent, that he marveled they had nerve enough to use it at all. He walked beside her out into the garden. As they hurried along the darkening path, he said, “Isn’t this place lit at night, or patrolled?”
“Most of it is,” said Dame Leonie, “But I have a few orchids in the greenhouse that require delicate care and low light. I managed to bring out a sleeping bag yesterday morning,” she added in a whisper.
It was hard to see now, and he picked his way awkwardly; then behind them the garden lights came on in full brilliance. Willie glanced back. “That’s damned impressive.”
“I suppose so. It’s not for beauty, it’s for security. We have special pressure-sensitive plates set in the top of the walls around the compound, and anything heavier than a cat coming over the wall sets off the alarms. As I recall, the plates are set for ten pounds.”
“Nine pounds of explosives could do a lot of damage,” said Willie, growing dubious.
“But it hasn’t happened so far. The wall on the outside is very brightly lit. It’s not easy to get close enough to throw a grenade or put up a ladder without exposing yourself to our guards.” She had reached the door of the greenhouse; she fished in her pocket for the key. “You really do have to be careful. I don’t want to ruin too many of these flowers if I can help it.”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Willie, amazed that she was so eager. Before, she had always been the careful, prudent one, because she was at risk; she was the one who had broken off their affair twice because of the potential disaster it could be for her. Yet now she was pulling him into her greenhouse.
There was the pungent scent of loamy air as the door opened and the darkness increased. Willie stepped into the warm, damp interior, remaining still while Dame Leonie found the concealed lights. “Won’t someone notice they’re on?”
“I hope so,” she said; a low, ruddy glow suffused the room. “I’ll need someone to say they’re certain we’ve been here because the lights are on. Besides, I’ve told Harding that you’re very keen on orchids, and I wanted you to see these.”
Willie frowned. “But won’t that make it worse?” He was whispering now, wondering if the place could be bugged.
“No. Once these lights are turned on, they automatically remain on for forty minutes. It reduces the shock to the plants. You can hold my attention for forty minutes, can’t you, Willie?” She had come back to his side, her arms going around him.
In that rare, lush near-darkness, Willie slid his hands into her perfectly ordered hair and gently tangled it as he kissed her, finding her mouth open to his. Around them the fragile, exotic plants were blurred in the pink twilight. While he still had his wits about him, Willie drew back enough to ask, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
For an answer she kissed him again, her tongue seeking his, her fingers working at his tie and shirt.
“I didn’t bring anything,” he warned her, thinking of the condoms in his suitcase, now useless in his room.
“I did,” she said softly.
So she had planned this from the first. He shivered as she dragged his shirt off him, but not for cold. The cuffs caught at his wrists, and suddenly both of them were laughing, tugging at his shirt in the dim-red light.
“Maybe I better do this,” he offered, glad now that he had not bothered to don his jacket when they arrived at the embassy.
“Fine,” she murmured, and pulled her soft silk blouse out of her skirt. She handled her clothes with care so they would not have any tell-tale smudges on them.
As they undressed their laughter faded.
“Where’s the sleeping bag?” he whispered as he put his shoes upside down on top of his folded clothes; it was odd, standing naked in this place.
“Over here,” she said softly from a place in the greenhouse where the shadows were deepest.
He made his way toward her with care, feet uncertain on the uneven planking that served as walkways; his hands were slightly extended to keep him from hitting the tables or damaging luxurious plants. He came erect as he walked.
She reached out to him, and knelt, pulling him down beside her. “I’ve been dreaming about nothing but you for weeks and weeks,” she said, her voice so low that he could barely hear it. She caught his earlobe in her teeth lightly, then started a careful progress of kisses along his jaw and down his neck. She felt his hands tremble from pleasure as he wrapped his arms around her, caressing her.
He drew her closer, moaning as the top of her thigh pressed against his swollen flesh. He wanted to ask her why—why now? why here? But the words slipped away from him as she began to work the condom over his cock, making the utilitarian act one of intense pleasure. Now there was only the opulence of her body and the sweetness of her love. He had not been aware of the pain of missing her until now, when he stretched out beside her on the sleeping bag. All those months, he realized, he had not been a reasonable adult, he had been numb. But no longer. Here with her, he was alive, and the hurt was gone as soon as he knew it for what it was. He nuzzled her breasts and the rise of her belly, and sensed her need, her passion as intensely as furnace heat.
It was too soon, he was sure it was too soon, but she moved under him and reached around him, pressing his back, fitting her hands to his buttocks, trying to bring them more closely together. He kissed her repeatedly, deeply and slowly, aware he might bruise her mouth. And then he went into her as if to fuse them into one being.
When it was over, he did not know if her orgasm or his own had shaken him more.
* * *
“This is a most…unexpected request,” said the Director-General of Russian Security. He had been in office only two years and already he was greyer and heavier than when he was sworn in. In another two years, he would be completely worn out.
Dmitri Karodin gave a single nod. There was a little moisture in his greying hair where the unexpected shower had caught him out a quarter of an hour ago. “Yes, Director-General,” he said, thinking the title was a cumbersome mouthful. At least he no longer had to include Comrade in the whole. “But I believe it is necessary or I would not be making it.”
“Yes,” said the Director-General. “Yes, I can see that.” His eyes appeared not quite in focus. “How long would you require for this mission, and why would you not send one of your own operatives instead of going yourself?”
There were several answers he might have given, each of which contained an element of truth: “I am frustrated working behind a desk so much of the time,” “I haven’t been to China for more than eight years,” “There are rumors of an assassination plot against Premier Zuo; since we’re suspected of being behind it, I want to clear it up,” “I’m curious about this Chinese woman Pope,” “I miss having adventures.” But he chose a safe, political lie instead. “I think we need to find out why the Catholic Church is attempting to gain influence in the PRC, Director-General.”
Anatoly Illich Sava said nothing for a short while. “What is it to us if the Catholic Church enters China?” he asked at last.
Dmitri tried to conceal his irritation. “It ought to concern us, for if the Catholic Church is moving into China, it will also be advancing in other places. That is the way it has always been. If there are missionaries in China, then soon they will come to Russia, and they will visit our friends around the world. We must be ready and prepared, Director-General. Our friends are depending on us to keep the peace. We’ve had our fill of religious wars in the last decade, wouldn’t you say?” If only Anatoly Sava was not well over sixty, if only he was not a survivor of the Siege of Stalingrad, Dmitri might have been less accommodating. But Anatoly Sava had been a real hero as a young man, and even now Dmitri Karodin was not willing to destroy his reputation. “I would rather deal with this myself. I know what I seek, and in this instance, we do not need a covert operator in China; it could endanger our posture there.” He did his best to school his features to an expression of encouragement.
“I believe you are anticipating something that might not happen,” said Sava after a brief pause.
“That’s possible. I want to learn what is actual.” He stared at his memo as if willing it to catch fire. “If I am to do my work properly, I will have to leave soon. I have already made a call to the Chinese embassy here in Moscow, and I have a call booked to the PRC this evening.” All these plans in motion, he told himself, would convince Sava that he had to react quickly. “Alexand
r Nevsky isn’t available to lure the Catholics onto the frozen lake this time, Director-General. We must handle them another way.”
“You are a little ahead of yourself with all these plans, Dmitri,” said Anatoly Sava while he pulled at his lower lip. “You ought to have waited for full authorization.”
Dmitri Karodin wanted to pound the table. “I am very much afraid if we do not act quickly, the Church will have fixed itself in the flesh of Asia for the next century at least.”
“Oh, not the way we’re doing centuries now,” said Sava, a rumbling chuckle marking his feeble joke. “Nothing lasts for centuries any more. Which is why I do not share your concern about the Catholic Church.” He pushed back from his desk. “If they can do something about Islamic Fundamentalism, so much the better.” Then he sighed. “Nevertheless, I suppose you do have some legitimate reason for concern.”
“Yes,” said Dmitri impatiently. “Please let me have this authorization. I will do my work as quickly as professionalism allows. I will report to you every evening, if you like.” He made himself keep his hands at his sides instead of folding them.
Sava started to get up from his shapeless chair, then sagged back into it. “I do not trust you, Karodin. In these new times of opposition parties and soft borders, I see steel in your spine and hot coals in your eyes. You have not forgot the history of this country, which is a continuous series of invasions. You know that we are accepting risks far greater than those we imposed on our…European cousins, twenty years ago.” He put his meaty, liver-spotted hands together, sagely peering over the top of them. “You are afraid for Russia. And you will do anything to protect her. And for that reason, though I admire you, I do not trust you.”
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