“Go ahead,” said Greene, who held out three tablets to Cardinal Hetre. “It will serve its purpose this way as well as the other.”
“And we are agreed that we will continue to work to be rid of this interloper in the Vatican, aren’t we?” Greene asked, directing the question at Cardinal Hetre.
“It sounds like it to me,” said Clancy, feeling merry now that he was certain Cardinal Hetre would provide them the introduction they needed to approach the new Pope. “We can drink to that, can’t we?”
“Thank you,” murmured Cardinal Hetre as he took the tablets. The pain was making him nauseated. “By all means, let us drink.”
The champagne cork popped and Clancy held a flute to catch the first enthusiastic overflow. When the glass was half-full he handed it to Cardinal Hetre. “To the end of all our headaches,” he said with an impish smile.
Cardinal Hetre, his features wan, his eyes like coals, lifted the glass in agreement before he washed down the aspirin.
Chapter 21
Dame Leonie looked tired from her long flight, but Willie hardly noticed. As soon as they reached his apartment, he shoved the door closed and pulled her into his arms. He held her for some time before he kissed her, convincing himself that this was no longer his overactive imagination at work, but Leonie herself; he did not need to dream of her any longer. Their kiss was complex, leaving both of them light-headed.
“It must be jet lag,” whispered Leonie, unwilling to move out of his arms.
“Is jet lag contagious?” Willie asked fondly. “God, it is wonderful to have you here.” He was horrified at how banal that sounded. He wanted to summon every loving word he had ever learned, entwine them all in wreaths of poetry for her; he did not know they were all in the way he spoke her name. “Leonie.”
She snuggled closer to him. “You don’t know how many times I’ve had to stop myself getting on a plane and coming here. Don’t bother to tell me how foolish that is.”
He kissed her brow. “All right; I won’t.”
Her suitcases lay at their feet making movement hazardous, or providing a splendid excuse to stand leaning together for a while. Finally Leonie sighed and disengaged her ankle from the long shoulder strap of her larger garment bag. “When word came from the Vatican—”
“What word?” asked Willie. “Who contacted you?” He had been told only that Dame Leonie had been requested to come to the Vatican, but nothing of who initiated the invitation. “It wasn’t Mendosa.” He was certain of that, but little else. He pulled her back close to him.
“Zhuang. Pope An.” She nudged against Willie, confiding, “I thought you were behind it. I didn’t think.… Why would she send for me, but because of something you asked?”
Willie scowled. “I don’t know,” he had to confess, and resolved to have the answer as soon as he had his next audience with Her Holiness. “I’ll find out.” The pressure of Leonie’s body against his was too distracting for him to worry about the Pope now. He reached up and sank his hand in her hair, disarranging her elegant coiffeur. It pleased him to mess her hair, to change it from sleek perfection to a glorious tangle.
They kissed again, and this time there was a promise in the way their mouths met. After a long moment she pulled away, saying, “Is this wise?”
“No,” he answered before he unfastened her jacket and started to work on the concealed buttons of her blouse. “Oh, yes.” His whole attention was focused on what he was doing. At the first touch of her skin, a shock went through him as jolting as electricity. His breathing grew ragged. He kicked off his loafers.
She had dropped his tie and was tugging him out of his jacket. She glanced toward the French doors leading onto his little balcony. “Shouldn’t we—?”
“Close them?” he finished for her. “Someone might notice that. I'll draw the curtains. That’ll keep prying eyes out.” His smile transformed his face, making him fifteen years younger and idealistic again. He hurried to do this, taking care to stay out of the sunlight. Once the filmy curtains were across the doorway, he tossed his jacket onto the nearest chair and turned back toward Leonie once again.
She was naked, but for her slim gold necklace and earrings. With her hair in disarray, her jewelry became tokens of intimacy, making her somehow more naked than she would have seemed without them. She fixed her eyes on him, her pupils enormous so that her eyes were almost black. “I don’t know why I want you so much.”
The intensity of her voice shook him, and he tried to answer flippantly; he read something in her demeanor that was unlike anything he had discovered in her before. “We’re middle-aged crazies? Leonie?” It sounded wistful. He put his cufflinks on the dresser and flung his shirt aside.
“Nothing so easy,” she said, coming toward him. She stopped directly in front of him, all her senses heightened. She could not keep from trembling. “I guess what they used to say is true. If you don’t squash passion when you’re young, it gets stronger with age.”
He nodded once, his throat tight. Slowly he reached out and touched her necklace, holding the fine gold links between thumb and middle finger. “Yes. It does.” His admission was so all-consuming that it took his breath away. With an effort he stepped back from her. “Sorry, getting out of trousers is so damned awkward,” he said, suiting actions to his words.
She made a breathless attempt at a chuckle, then caught his hand in hers as he straightened up, trousers and socks abandoned in a heap on the floor. “I’ve been dreaming about this all the way here.” She led him the half-dozen paces to his bed, falling back onto the tousled sheets and pulling him with her. “I couldn’t concentrate on anything. But this.” She wrapped her arms around him.
Her lips were on him, tasting him everywhere. He lay back as she began her quest, and she indulged her desire, finding him more eager, more receptive than he had been before, even while she unfurled the condom, sheathing him and driving him to greater excitement. Her skin seemed fused with his own, as if the flesh between them dissolved so that each became part of the other where she straddled him. With culmination came deep, joyous laughter.
The bell from the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore pulled them back to themselves. They rolled apart, each laughing softly, without embarrassment.
“I don’t want to give this up,” said Leonie, for the first time showing real concern. “I don’t want to give you up, Willie.”
Again a flippant response hovered on his lips, but he never spoke. Instead he leaned over and kissed her lightly. “I don’t want to give you up, either.”
She touched his face. “I wish we could stay together. Every day I wish it more and more. But the scandal. There would be so much scandal.”
“We’d weather it,” he said, for the first time in his life certain it was true. “Your royals have got through worse.”
“Do you think so?” Doubt clouded her features. “Maybe we would as lovers, but.… It sounds so bloody-minded to say this out loud: scandal would ruin my career. I mean ruin it utterly. Because of what would come out about…my husband. None of the royals have had that over them.”
“That we know of,” Willie pointed out.
“Exactly. That would be the scandal.” She sighed, her breath shaking. “Twenty years of work, and it would count for naught.” Her hand slid to his chest. “I feel dreadfully selfish, telling you this. I feel mean-spirited and.…”
He stopped her, placing his finger beside her mouth. Although he could not convince himself it was true, he said, “Don’t fret. People would forget in time. You know how these things are.”
“Yes,” she said very somberly. “I do. Perhaps if I were a man it wouldn’t matter so much, but—” She moved away from him. “Divorce would be bad enough. But it wouldn’t stop there, would it?”
Willie watched her sit up. He wanted to reach out and pull her back to him, to restore their closeness. “Divorce happens. The whole Church of England was founded on a divorce. You aren’t Roman Catholic, he is, and a bad one, at that. You a
greed to raise your children Roman Catholic. You took the Catechism, for the sake of the children. What children? No one would insist you stay with a man who’s homosexual, unless you want to. If divorce isn’t possible, then a real, legal separation, not this living apart for years on end. Separations happen. You and I know of a dozen couples who haven’t spent any time together in the last ten years, and everyone knows that those marriages are fiction. When they end it, everyone’s relieved. It would be all right. Most people would understand. They’ve understood about others.”
“Not women in my position,” she said slowly. “There are two women Ambassadresses representing the English in the world today. Neither of us would remain in our positions if anything was discovered to our discredit.”
He wanted to persuade her with the very sound of his voice. “Leonie. You could leave him. You could.”
She turned, her lovely back caught in a slice of hazy light, her face in shadow. “Do you think so?” There was a suggestion of a forlorn smile in the darkness.
“Well,” he answered carefully, “I hope so.”
“Hope?” She took his hand in hers. “I’d like to hope so, too. But how can I, Willie?”
* * *
Zhuang Renxin wore black slacks and a quilted black jacket. Her lapel pin was her only concession to her position—a jeweled and enameled Papal tiara. In that she was much in the mundane style of her companion, except for the cowboy boots. She poured out a cup of tea and glanced at over at Cardinal Mendosa. “Would you like some?” She paid no attention to the magnificent dome of Saint Peter’s that occupied most of the view from her study window.
“Please,” he said, settling back in his chair.
She poured a second cup, but before handing it to him, she said, “I have not heard anything more from the police about the death of Cardinal Tayibha. What progress is being made?”
“They don’t report to me, Worthy Magistrate. I can ask, if you wish.” He accepted the tea. “According to what has been in the news, the whole thing remains a mystery. No one wants to admit that someone wants to kill you.”
“But someone does. Probably many people do. The police ought to report to me,” she said, handing him his cup.
“As Pope or Worthy Magistrate?” asked Mendosa without a trace of sarcasm. “They might not know your skills in these situations. Or your concern, for that matter.” The tea was too hot. He put it aside for the moment.
She smiled as she looked at him. “Who has the right to be more concerned than I? As Magistrate, I want to be kept informed. As Pope, I want to be on guard.”
“I think some of them don’t understand you yet, Worthy Magistrate. They hope that if they tell you nothing, the reason for their worry will…disappear.”
“Disappear. Very clever, Mendosa.” She took her tea and sat down. “I have been told there are those who disapprove of me serving tea to my guests. Why is that?”
“Oh, more of the panoply you dislike so much, Magistrate Zhuang. We’re supposed to wait on you, not the other way around. You know what became of Cardinal Tayibha because there is someone at the Vatican who doesn’t know you very well. You see, there are those who would compete for the privilege of pouring your tea, if you would let them. Tell you what: if anyone else speaks against it, say you are doing it for humility; that ought to shut them up.” He stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles.
“Why would that succeed?” She sipped her tea, her black eyes fixed on him, alert and very determined.
“Because humility is a virtue, and you can say that as Pope you seek to set an example of it.” His smile was wintery. “Who knows? Some of them might even take it to heart for a day or two.”
Zhuang chuckled. “How on earth did you manage to become a Cardinal, with such an attitude?”
He waved one hand negligently, grinning. “My uncle helped. He plowed several million dollars into building the Four Evangelists—my cathedral at home—and twice again as much into restoring and preserving historic Catholic churches in Europe and America. He let it be known that he would be thanked if his priest-nephew advanced. And I was politically desirable at the time of my first two promotions.” He reached over to get the tea. “And my vices are minor ones in the eyes of the Church.”
“Your uncle is a wealthy man, then?” She appeared genuinely surprised.
He regarded her. “Yes. So was my father. Two of my brothers are extremely rich.” Then he made a canny guess. “You were thinking I was a poor Mexican-American who had been able to pull himself out of poverty through the Church? Is that it?”
She gave a single nod. “I have heard that Mexicans are very poor in Texas.”
“Some of them are. More of them than ought to be are,” said Mendosa. “But Tex-Mex isn’t really Mexican, not the way you mean. I wasn’t born Carlos, I was born Charles. I have a sister named Kathleen, and one named Taylor, for her Godfather. I learned most of my Spanish in school and from my grandparents. My family has been in Texas for seven generations. That might not sound like a lot to you, Worthy Magistrate, but in Texas it’s quite a record.”
“Then your position was bought?” she asked, sounding disappointed.
He refused to be ashamed. “If I hadn’t been any good at the job, I wouldn’t be a Cardinal. There’s only so much rich relatives can do, and then you either”—he very nearly said “shit or get off the pot,” but modified it—“cut the mustard or you’re siphoned off to some unimportant work well out of harm’s way.” He took two gulps of tea and added the only thing that truly mattered to him. “Besides, I have always believed that I was supposed to be here.”
A month ago such a statement would have appalled her. Now she shrugged. “You’re not another fanatic, Mendosa. You don’t have that hunger in your eyes I see in so many here. What is your ambition?”
He looked directly at her and smiled, “To serve God, Worthy Magistrate, in the only place I can—the world.”
She poured more tea and held the pot out to him. “I think my English is getting very good.”
“Very good,” he seconded, making no comment on her abrupt change of subject; she would reveal what was on her mind in time.
“Two hours of intensive instruction each day for four months has helped me, and watching American and British television.” She set the pot down. “Have more when you wish it.”
“Thank you, Worthy Magistrate.” He remained still, watching for what she would say next.
“I have a few questions I want to address to you. I am relying on you to give me the answers I need. I have asked my tutors and a few of the others—I will tell you who later—but not even Cadini will tell me what I wish to know.” She tapped one foot. “It is very disturbing to me that so many in this Church are not willing to speak openly.”
“It’s habit, Worthy Magistrate. Most of them have forgotten how.” He got up and poured himself a little more tea.
“It is very annoying to me,” she said as if she were in court. “I wish those serving me to be reliable.”
“Tell them that,” suggested Mendosa, although he knew it was useless.
“I have,” she said, the tone of her voice revealing how little good it had done. “They do not know what I mean. They are confused and…like one being attacked.”
“Defensive,” Mendosa supplied.
“Yes. So I am coming to you. You are the one I will depend upon once again.” She pursed her lips, a sure sign that she was about to ask something difficult.
“What is it?” Mendosa asked, in pleasant dread.
She set her cup aside. “Tell me why there are such stringent rules about marriage—why those who are married must always remain married and those who are in the Church are not permitted to marry ever.” She poured more tea and folded her arms once she set the pot down. “I don’t want to hear about Christ. I want to hear about the Church. They are not the same thing.”
“No, Worthy Magistrate, they are not,” said Mendosa sadly. “And the stringency doesn’t
limit itself to marriage.”
Her hands tightened. “Well?”
“Marriage first.” He went to the window and studied the dome of Saint Peter’s. “When the Church was beginning, those who were Christians worshipped in small groups. Often those groups didn’t agree about many things. Most of the early Christians wanted to live communally, sharing everything, including their bodies. Their Mass was a love feast, literally. They shared food and then they made love as a group. The Christians who were followers of the Apostle Paul didn’t think that way, and in time they became a large enough group to challenge the other Christians.” He turned back to her. “There was a Synod of Bishops. You know what that is.”
“It is an official council meeting,” she said promptly.
“At that time, Bishops set the policy of the Church. The Pope was supposed to tend to spiritual matters and leave the grubby job of running the Church to the Bishops.” He laced his fingers together. “This particular Council made a lot of decisions about dogma—the things all Christians must believe in order to be Christians—but they did a number of other things, as well, including editing the sacred texts so that they conformed to their own positions. They fixed the Church’s position on many things having to do with sex.”
“And what has that to do with marriage and divorce?” She got up, going to sit behind the trestle table where she could take notes. Her tea was left to cool.
“Well, according to the New Testament, as it reads now, Jesus said there could be no divorce.” Mendosa watched her pen move, the characters appearing like doodles to him.
“I will look this up,” she said emphatically.
Mendosa did not doubt her. “But there are many accomplished scholars who contend that what Jesus was speaking against was the practice of abandoning unwanted wives. In that time, the time Jesus was alive, a Jewish wife who was abandoned not only received no help from her husband, she could not remarry until he died. If her family took her in, she had a chance, but if they refused—and many of them did—the woman became a beggar or a prostitute or both. Some of them sold themselves to the Romans as slaves because Roman law required Romans to feed and house and clothe their slaves.”
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