Magnificat

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Premier Zuo is an atheist,” Willie reminded Mendosa.

  “That won’t bother God one little bit,” said Mendosa. “If He can get eighty-nine Cardinals to vote for the same Chinese woman twice—twice!—He can find a way to get the Premier of the PRC to let her out. Hell, after the Cardinals, the Premier should be a piece of cake.” He clapped his hands. “I just wish He’d hurry it up a little.”

  Dame Leonie could not quite laugh. “What if Beijing refuses?”

  Mendosa shook his head. “It won’t happen. Oh, they’ll think about it, I’m sure of that, but eventually, they’ll give in.” He looked toward the garden. “Your security lights ought to come on soon.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” said Dame Leonine with a swift glance at Willie. “What time is it?”

  “Sixish,” he said.

  “Sounds about right,” Mendosa agreed.

  “And why are the lights significant, if they are?” Willie asked in what he thought of as his drawing-room-comedy voice.

  “Just an observation,” said Mendosa, “and a way to get off the subject. How to get Magistrate Zhuang to Rome: it’s been on my mind every hour since we left there and even I am beginning to find it boring.” He looked away toward an arrangement of orchids. “Very pretty. Do you grow them here?”

  “In the greenhouse,” said Dame Leonie, her face reddening.

  “They’re lovely.” Mendosa did not appear to be aware of her momentary awkwardness. “They must take a great deal of care.”

  “Yes,” she said, recovering quickly. “Yes, they do.”

  The lights came on in the garden. Willie bowed with a flourish. “Right on time, Your Eminence.”

  Mendosa gave a short, hard sigh. “Willie, truly, I did not mean to offend you.”

  “And you’ll read me a lesson later,” said Willie before he could stop himself. “Sorry. That was out of bounds. If I didn’t hate this waiting and uncertainty and.…”

  “And the need for deception,” said Dame Leonie when Willie did not continue. She took a step toward the inner door. “I’m sure tea is almost ready. Why don’t we adjourn to the drawing room?”

  Willie accepted promptly and gratefully. “Just promise me that we don’t have crumpets. If there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s crumpets anywhere but England. Cuisine chauvinism, I suppose, but I don’t know how anyone can stand crumpets if they aren’t in Bury St. Edmunds.”

  They were in the hall now, almost at the door to the drawing room when the telephone secretary came up to Dame Leonie. “Excuse me, Dame Leonie, but we have a call for Cardinal Mendosa. It is authentic and urgent.” His face was disapproving though he spoke in a carefully neutral tone. “We have voice-print verification.”

  “From Rome?” asked Mendosa, wondering which of his fellow-Cardinals was checking up on him.

  “No; from Beijing.” The telephone secretary looked from Dame Leonie to Mendosa for the first time, as if Mendosa had appeared there by magic.

  Mendosa’s demeanor changed at once. “Why didn’t you say so?” he demanded, then swung around toward Willie. “I told you.”

  “You haven’t heard what the caller has to say yet,” Willie cautioned him. “You don’t know that it has any bearing on Magistrate Zhuang.”

  “Why else would someone call me from Beijing?” Mendosa asked, feeling suddenly light-headed. “Excuse me, Dame Leonie. I won’t be long.” He addressed the telephone secretary. “Will I?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot say,” he replied and turned away without further comment. “The call will be transferred to the booth off the entry hall,” he added.

  “I’ll get there,” said Mendosa, striding off down the hall. He knew the call would open the way for him, as he had known Magistrate Zhuang the first time he set eyes on her. Whoever was calling him would be the key to bringing Zhuang Renxin to Rome. He had to resist the urge to run the last few yards to the secure telephone booth built into an alcove on the side of the entry hall.

  “Your call from Beijing, Your Eminence,” said one of the switchboard operators as Mendosa picked up the line.

  “Charles Mendosa here,” he said, expecting to hear a Chinese voice and a translator as well.

  The answering party spoke excellent English with a distinct Russian accent. “Good evening, Your Eminence.”

  Startled, Mendosa did not reply immediately. “Who is this?” he asked, baffled and apprehensive at once.

  The man on the other end of the line laughed. “This is Dmitri Karodin, Your Eminence. I must suppose you know who I am?”

  More confused than ever, Mendosa said, “Yes, I know. And don’t call me Your Eminence. Mendosa will do just fine.”

  “As you wish.” Karodin paused, then ventured. “I thought you might be expecting to hear from me.”

  “I was expecting to hear from someone in Beijing,” said Mendosa carefully.

  “Well, and so you have; that is where I am.” He paused once more for effect, continuing smoothly, “My errand here is almost finished, Your—Mendosa. There are very few things left to do. Perhaps you would like to hear about them?”

  “I’m a little rusty, but I know the rules of Confession,” said Mendosa.

  “Yes, of course,” said Karodin. “And naturally your lips are sealed, aren’t they?” He did not give Mendosa enough time to answer. “I have come to China to…to handle a minor negotiation with an old associate, someone who would prefer our dealings remain strictly private. The nature of the negotiations need not concern you, except that as part of those negotiations, I have stipulated that Magistrate Zhuang be provided the proper exit papers to permit her to leave the People’s Republic of China to take up permanent residence in Rome.”

  In spite of his inner certainty that Magistrate Zhuang would obtain the needed visas, Mendosa was amazed, for he had never anticipated that the KGB would be involved. He bristled with questions, all of which he kept to himself. “A very gracious gesture,” he said. “Yet I am curious about your motives. Forgive me for doubting your altruism, but it is a fault of my trade, I fear.”

  Karodin gave a single bark of laughter. “What I’ve heard about you must be right. Such restraint, Your Eminence. My motives, as you call them, are my own. They do not concern you, directly or indirectly. I give you my personal assurance of that.”

  “I hope…I hope it proves so,” said Mendosa warily.

  “I have been informed,” Karodin went on as if he was unaware of Mendosa’s reservations, “that you will be allowed to return to Hongya in three days, and that Magistrate Zhuang’s papers will be ready within the month. I have every reason to believe that there will be no changes in this plan. I trust I can leave this in your capable hands?”

  Mendosa’s palms were sweating now. “Who told you this? Who arranged it?”

  “Ah,” Karodin warned, “I am not at liberty to discuss that; I will never be at liberty to discuss it. Suffice it to say that it is being tended to properly.”

  “All right,” said Mendosa, waiting for more.

  “So discreet, Mendosa. And admirable in a man of your position.” There was a change in his tone to something at once lighter and more grim. “Let me make two requests of you: first, that you do not mention my participation in any of these dealings at any time.”

  “Since this is your Confession, I cannot speak,” said Mendosa. “No matter what may happen.”

  Karodin hesitated. “There is no reason for you to anticipate regretting your silence.”

  “Very well. And second?” It was a dangerous assurance to give, Mendosa knew it, but he was confident that he would have no cause to betray the confidence. Nothing in what Karodin said distorted the vision of Zhuang Renxin at her Papal coronation; it remained before his eyes like a thin, bright film coloring everything around him.

  “Second is that I wish to have regular reports, secret reports, on her work and her progress. From you.”

  Mendosa was quiet as he considered his answer. “Why from me? I would have thought you
had others to do that task for you.”

  “Perhaps I want us both to be reminded of this conversation, Your Eminence. Like it or not, we have this to link us, don’t we?” He let the question hang.

  Mendosa did not challenge him. “Assuming I go along with you, how often do you want these reports, and what information do you seek?” He sensed that if he pressed the Russian for the reason, Karodin would end their conversation at once.

  “I wish to know what she is doing.” There was an implacable note in his voice now.

  Mendosa made himself chuckle. “The press and newsmedia will do that.”

  “Nevertheless, I want reports,” said Karodin. “From you.”

  “But that is…it could be compromising.” Mendosa said it easily enough but his tension became a hot place in his gut.

  “It could, but it will not be,” said Karodin.

  Mendosa could not keep from asking, “Why?”

  “Caprice?” Karodin suggested. “I have told you my reasons are my own, Your Eminence.” He became more business-like. “I will send a note to your office in Rome. It will contain instructions as to how your reports are to be delivered. Shall we say monthly?”

  “Is this truly necessary?” Mendosa asked.

  “Yes, it is,” said Karodin. “I have done you a service and I require a service in kind. Rather the devil you know, Mendosa.” He made a sound that was not the laugh he intended. “You will be contacted officially in the morning. I would recommend you be prepared to travel in three days. And I suppose that Englishman, Foot, had better go with you.”

  “I should inform the Vatican of this,” said Mendosa, giving Karodin the opportunity to change his mind.

  “Inform away, for all the good it will do,” said Karodin with a touch of amusement in his voice. “It has been an unexpected pleasure, Your Eminence, but I regret our discussion is over. Bon voyage.” With that he cut the connection.

  Mendosa held the receiver for the better part of a minuteF as if he expected Karodin to come back on the line, or someone else to inform him that it had all been a joke. But neither of those things happened, and finally Mendosa hung up.

  * * *

  “For in the Book of Revelations, are we not warned against the Whore of Babylon? Is it not written that the Antichrist will reign?” Reverend Williamson stared soulfully into the camera lens while behind him rose the spires of his new Salvation Center. “I say it is 1998 and the Last Days are upon us. I say that Scripture spells it out plainly. In two years, two short years, the millennium will be upon us and Christ will come again to reign on earth, to judge the living and the dead. O my dear Brothers and Sisters in Christ! Heed the warning! In this time of chaos among nations, of governments that change with every season, when the earth itself is abused and damaged by thoughtless, godless men, the promise of Scripture is clear. Those who know the signs will reject all false prophets and the lure of the Antichrist, they will abhor the profane, blasphemous conduct of the Roman Catholic Church, which has wandered so far from God’s purpose that it proposes to put a non-Christian woman on the Throne of Saint Peter!” His face darkened with indignation.

  In the control room, the sound engineer cued in Reverend Williamson’s signature hymn, Rising up, Jehovah.

  “Many times I have been inspired to tell you of the dangers of the idolatrous Catholic Church. Many times God has revealed to me the damnation hidden in the jewels and rituals of the Catholic Church. And now we see the Church for the Harlot she is, for the deceiver she is! God has shown us, my Brothers and Sisters.” His gestures were controlled but abrupt, punctuating his accusations. “God has torn the mask of piety from the face of the Catholic Church and exposed the corruption and rottenness that infests it. A Communist woman is Pope! How ludicrous that is! How ridiculous! How obscene!”

  The camera pulled back to accommodate Reverend Williamson’s now more expansive gestures.

  “Thank the Lord that we have had this warning! Fall on your knees and praise Him for His mercy, that He has shown you the fires of the Pit before you fall into them. The Catholic Church is the first and greatest of the profaners to fall, and there will be others crumbling as the Lord’s Year comes.

  “And my Brothers and Sisters, it is coming, that glorious year Two Thousand! When Jesus will come back to us, as He promised He would do, and He will gather His lambs unto His breast, and the goats He will turn away into Hell.”

  “Cue credits,” said the director. “That’s a wrap.”

  * * *

  Martin Bell was nervous as he read over the instructions he had received from Dmitri Karodin that morning. Arrange an introduction to Charles, Cardinal Mendosa as soon as he returns from China, the decoded message said. Cultivate his friendship. That last was ominous, for in the last twenty-four hours it had been announced by Premier Zuo of the People’s Republic of China that in the interest of world peace and the brotherhood of nations, Magistrate Zhuang Renxin would be given an exit visa to permit her to assume her position as head of the Roman Catholic Church. The Cardinal—the only Catholic—permitted to visit and accompany her on this historic occasion was Charles, Cardinal Mendosa of Houston, Texas.

  He put the message in a little safe built under the floor of his office. For once in his long and successful career, he did not have any confidence in his ability to perform as required. Everyone in the Western world would be seeking to meet Cardinal Mendosa. The savvy, outspoken Texan was known to have a sixth sense for phonies, and that alone spooked Bell. Once or twice in his life he had come up against such people, and he had always fared badly.

  His new secretary knocked on his door. “Cardinal Cadini is here for your three o’clock appointment, Professor,” she said, her shiny hair swung to catch his attention.

  Ordinarily Bell would have allowed himself the pleasure of a little flirtation: Norma was the kind of woman who turned him on—busty, leggy and glossy. But today he gave her a distracted nod. “I’ll be right out. Give him a cup of coffee or something.”

  “All right,” she said, clearly disappointed at her reception.

  Bell fiddled with the stack of papers on his desk, delaying the moment when he would have to put into effect the only plan he had been able to think of since he received word from Karodin, for he knew that it was not a very clever notion. He kept hoping that something better would occur to him, though nothing did. He could not postpone taking action indefinitely. He got up, raked his fingers through his hair, adjusted his tie and fixed his mouth in a polite smile. If only he did not like Cardinal Cadini so much, it would be easier to use him.

  “Good afternoon, Martin,” said Cardinal Cadini, holding out his hand. He was unusually dapper today, with a burgundy tie and a summer-weight suit in a flattering shade of dove-grey.

  “Out of uniform again, I see,” said Bell, reassured by Cardinal Cadini’s firm grip. “Glad to see you looking so fit.”

  “Ah, my physician is a tyrant,” Cardinal Cadini complained genially. “He insists that I walk each morning, and I am terrified to disobey, for then he sets his nurses after me.”

  “A terrible fate,” said Bell, then turned to Norma, trying to make up for his earlier lack of interest. “Sorry you have such a churlish lout for a boss, Norma. I guess it’s the weather.”

  “It is pretty muggy,” she said, letting him off the hook.

  “It’s all the tourists,” said Cardinal Cadini. “They raise the temperature of the place. I’m quite certain of it.” He smiled at Norma then looked quizzically at Bell. “Are you sure you can spare the time? If you have other—”

  “No; no, I want to pick your brains, actually,” said Bell, making himself tend to his appointed task. “So long as the Church is going to have such a monumental upheaval, I figure I might as well get a book and a promotion out of it.”

  “The academic predator,” said Cardinal Cadini, opening his hands to show he was helpless against one. “I suppose I ought to have anticipated this.”

  “From more quarters than m
ine alone,” said Bell, permitting Cardinal Cadini to precede him out the door. “I thought we might go along to the Villa Borghese, to enjoy the air.”

  “And the tourists?” asked Cardinal Cadini. “Why not? It will give me a little time away from the Vatican.” He shook his head in mock self-recrimination. “How can I speak of the Vatican that way? You cannot imagine how the place has been since Premier Zuo made his announcement. I though the entire Curia had run mad, the way they reacted. And some of the Cardinals!”

  “Very bad?” asked Bell.

  “I do not expect teen-aged schoolboys to behave so badly.” He clapped one hand to his breast. “And I am as bad as the lot of them, admitting this to you. But I suppose you would know something of it in any case.”

  “It will probably be all over the news tonight,” Bell said by way of consolation.

  They descended a single flight of stairs and well out tall doors to a pillared walkway.

  “I am particularly fond of this place in the spring, when the wisteria are blooming,” said Cardinal Cadini. “Very pretty, the wisteria, but they tell me they aren’t in fashion right now.”

  “I like them, too,” said Bell, adding, “Shall we take a cab? My treat.”

  “In that case, by all means,” said Cardinal Cadini, toddling after Bell as he hurried toward the street.

  Bell snagged a cab in short order, and opened the door for Cardinal Cadini. “Prego,” he said as he climbed in beside his guest and gave their destination to the driver.

  Traffic was aggressively and typically Roman, and the cabbie hurtled along with the best of them. In the thirteen minutes it took to reach the Villa Borghese, the cab narrowly avoided nine collisions, which Bell ignored and Cardinal Cadini found invigorating. They got out near the Museo Borghese and ambled in the general direction of the Giardino del Lago.

  “All right, Martin, ask me your questions; there will be many, many things written about the Church now and it is good to know that someone might wish to get it right.” Cardinal Cadini beamed at Bell. “It’s a foregone conclusion that Willie Foot is going to come out of this a rich man, but you might as well garner some of the loot, as well.”