Willie smiled, deep, quiet mischief burgeoning in him. “You mean the current rumor that you really are the Pope’s lesbian lover? Or does the status of hero bother you.”
“Some of both,” she admitted. “The former is more troublesome than the latter. I wish there were something I could do about it. But if I draw attention to it, it only makes people think—”
“I don’t know what to do about the hero part, but I can stop the other rumors cold,” he said, having no idea where his sudden brazenness came from, but quite delighted with it.
“How? Not in time for tonight,” she said, her brows drawing together. “How can you do it, Willie?”
“It’s very simple, really.” He set his menu aside and dropped his napkin on the service plate. “Stand up and I’ll show you,” he promised, rising as he spoke.
She regarded him with a little annoyance and bewilderment; more to please him than to find any real relief from the staring she stood beside him. “What did you have in mind.”
“A little information dissemination,” said Willie, grinning at his own wit. As he said this he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her tightly against him, his mouth meeting hers with abiding passion. He felt her stiffen with surprise, then gradually relax as she drew herself tighter against him. Her mouth opened and their kiss deepened. Slowly he moved his hands up her back and caught her hair. She shook her head to free her tailored coiffeur, scattering pins over the napery as her glossy brown locks spilled over his fingers.
The whispers in the restaurant turned to buzzes and then grew to a few louder exclamations as the patrons goggled.
Very reluctantly Willie released Dame Leonie a little, giving her two quick, light kisses before he remarked to no one in particular, “We are celebrating our engagement tonight. We are going to marry in six months, when she is free.” He paid no attention to the brief, shocked gasp from Leonie and offered the room a general bow. “We’ve been lovers for some time. Now that the Church has made it possible, we are going to be married lovers.”
In England the diners would not have looked directly at the two of them—that would be too direct. Here in Rome there was no such reserve and the rest of the diners stared and pointed as Willie handed Leonie her menu as he sat down again.
Bemused, she accepted it as she sank back into her seat. “Why on earth did you do it,” she whispered.
“To end the rumors. Because it is the truth.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “By morning every news service in Europe will know about this and all you will have to do is blush at the mention of my name.”
“Pope An might not like this,” she said, then motioned him to hold his tongue as the waiter approached.
“We would like to present a bottle of champagne to you, Madame. And to you, Sir,” said the waiter in flawless English. “In appreciation.”
Dame Leonie was about to think of a polite refusal when Willie nodded energetically. “That’s very good of you. Thank the management for me, will you?”
“For heaven’s sake, Willie,” Dame Leonie whispered as the waiter went away, chest plumped with satisfaction.
“Lends credence to what we’ve done. Now choose an appetizer, won’t you? Something romantic.” He smiled hugely. “Now Sir Arthur can say whatever he likes; he won’t come off very well, will he?”
“I suppose not,” she said doubtfully, then laughed once. “No, no, he won’t come off well at all.”
Chapter 29
Now he knew how the vision would end; it gripped him in horror. To see that tranquil and radiant face eradicated, vanishing so terribly, so swiftly. Every time he witnessed this atrocity he strove to prevent it. He could feel himself in the vision straining to reach her in time, to place himself between her and destruction. The loss of her light, of her serenity and wisdom was more than he could bear. As he lay in a state that was not sleep he felt his ephemeral hands reach out to her, knowing already the gesture was futile, that he was restrained. He shouted to God to protect her in a voice that was only part of the vision. Beyond that vision was the vastness of mystery, and he pursued it, struggling against unknown barriers to reach it, to follow her, guard her. He could not imagine the world with her gone from it. The joy of her faith—a word she disdained—was too dear for him to lose, even to God. The ruin of her body would take her beyond the places his visions reached; he fought despair.
Her inaudible voice spoke to him internally. “Mendosa, it is fitting.”
“Worthy Magistrate,” he protested in the vision, and thrashed on his bed.
“Let it go, Mendosa. Let it go.” Her body was wreckage, pitiful and enraging, but he sensed her smile and her faint amusement. How could she laugh at death? he asked himself. How could she die so willingly for something she did not believe?
“It isn’t a question of belief, my friend, it is a question of the Way,” he heard her disembodied voice as he forced himself out of the vision to groggy wakefulness.
He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his chin in his hands. He swallowed hard and tried to mutter himself fully awake. “It mustn’t happen,” he repeated several times, all the while recalling other visions that had proven true. “She’s going to be okay. This is a warning, so that it can be prevented. They’ll find out who’s working against her and.…” He could not move beyond the vision to imagine what would be the lot of the conspirators.
A discreet knock on the door announced Priest Andres Viernes. “Cardinal?” he called softly. “Are you awake?”
“Near enough,” said Cardinal Mendosa, making his tone level. It would not do to have his own staff questioning his state of mind the way half the Catholics in Houston did. He rose and stretched, then crossed himself and began his morning prayers. The words made little sense to him, but he recited them dutifully, unwilling to give up the patterns he had come to know so well. Often in the past these rituals had offered him comfort in their familiarity, but today all they seemed to be was jingles, little catch phrases that might be more at home in advertising than in spiritual exercise.
Priest Viernes entered the room just as Cardinal Mendosa finished up his prayers. He regarded his superior with speculation. “Did you sleep well?”
“Not especially,” he answered. “And considering what the news has been like from America, it isn’t surprising I didn’t.”
“Yes,” said Priest Viernes. “I have the most recent developments on the computer if you want to review them. The reports are current to the last hour. Boston is the hardest hit. Cardinal Bradeston has already left for there. Cardinal Durand is scheduled to depart in the next two hours for Baltimore.” He had a small cup of coffee which he held out to Cardinal Mendosa. “President Carey telephoned three hours ago. He would like you to return his call, but not before six-thirty Washington time.”
“I sure as hell wouldn’t want his job right now,” Cardinal Mendosa observed as he stretched. “Mine’s hard enough, but his is a bitch.”
“He wants you to have a statement ready, one that he can use when he goes for his press conference this evening.” Priest Viernes reported this flatly in order to conceal his own intense curiosity.
“Good enough,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “How bad is the damage in Boston, do you know?”
“Pretty extensive. Two of the Fundamentalist groups got into a pitched battle about the Second Coming, the Mormon Service Center was trashed by some of them—reports are there were about five thousand or more—Reverend Williamson’s people—and a group of three or four thousand Catholics were caught in the middle of it.” He stared down at the floor. “Several thousand injured.”
Cardinal Mendosa nodded. “And killed?”
“Between two and three hundred, according to the police.” Priest Viernes crossed himself and regarded Cardinal Mendosa sideways. “What do you think?”
“I think there are some people out there somewhere who are profiting from this, and it makes me sick.” He rubbed his chin. “Where’s the Pope, do
you know?”
“It’s simple enough to find out,” said Priest Viernes, unwilling to admit he did not have that information.
“Then do it,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “And while you’re at it, get hold of Cadini and van Hooven for me, will you? Tell them it’s urgent.”
“Cadini and van Hooven,” repeated Priest Viernes. “All right.”
“I’m going to shower and shave. I’ll want a couple croissants and some fruit for breakfast, and more coffee.” He smoothed the front of his nightshirt. “Let Peverston and Gilbert know that I’ll want to talk to all three of you at two this afternoon.”
Priest Viernes made a sign of compliance. “I don’t want to intrude, but you do have that address to the scholars from the U.S. to give. At the Vatican library. It’s part of the International Study Agreement.”
Cardinal Mendosa looked annoyed. “Right,” he said, nodding at the unwelcome recollection. “Right. What time is that?”
“Two-thirty. There are seventy-eight of them, four from Texas.” He gave a sign of approval. “Bishop Peverston and Priest Gilbert can meet with you afterward.”
“Makes sense. Set it up. And thanks for reminding me about the talk.” He rubbed at his chin a second time. “I need to see my barber sometime in the next few days. Arrange it for me, if you please. I’m getting too shaggy, and that won’t do. We’ve got to keep up proper appearances.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Priest Viernes bowed slightly and turned toward the door. “If there is nothing else, I’ll send the order for breakfast.”
“Go ahead.” Cardinal Mendosa glanced toward the bathroom. “I’ll want to know about the Pope as soon as I’m dressed.”
“Of course,” said Priest Viernes, and left the Cardinal to his morning routine.
By the time Cardinal Mendosa emerged from his private quarters, neatened, shaved, his hair combed and his dark suit and deep burgundy tie in perfect order, his cowboy boots polished and buffed, his breakfast was waiting, along with print-outs from all the wire services available on his information computer network. While he nibbled at the croissants and grapes he had been brought, he read over the material, his frown deepening with each sentence.
“The Pope is in conference with a group of bishops from Africa. Willie Foot is with her, to translate. They are in the green conference room and are not to be disturbed.” Priest Viernes reported this as he poured Cardinal Mendosa another cup of coffee.
“Then we won’t disturb them,” said Cardinal Mendosa as he made his way through the report. “How did this Boston situation get so far out of hand?”
“There’s a large contingent of supporters of Reverend Williamson in Boston, and they’re becoming more restive. Reverend Williamson isn’t the most rabid of the extremists, but he does have the largest and most active following.” Priest Viernes sat down opposite the Cardinal. “In recent months, they’ve stepped up their activities, I think because they want to scoop up Catholics who are confused by what Pope An is doing and want a more—”
“Traditional?” suggested Cardinal Mendosa gently. “Repressive?”
Priest Viernes sighed. “You don’t need to argue with me, Cardinal. I might have doubted before, but I have come to think you are right.”
“Not I, Pope An.” He broke his second croissant in half and leaned back in his chair as he set the print-outs aside. “Have you spoken to Cadini and van Hooven?”
“Cadini yes, van Hooven, no.” Priest Viernes rubbed his hands together. “Cadini wants to talk with you as well.”
“We’ll do it right after Mass,” said Cardinal Mendosa, plucking off a bit of pastry. “Leave a message with one of van Hooven’s staff.”
“As you wish.”
“And put in a call to the Eurocops. Talk to Captain Christopher Hafen. I want to know about their most recent developments in regard to Cardinal Tayibha. It looks bad that we still don’t know who poisoned him. It would help if we could show progress on that investigation.” He had more of the croissant and finished his coffee. “I’ll return in time to telephone President Carey. If there are messages, arrange for them to be given to me then, and say I will return them at that time.” As he set his napkin aside and got to his feet, he permitted himself the luxury of a long sigh. “I have been thinking that if Christ were to return as an Israeli carpenter these days, especially given the state of affairs in Israel, He would not recognize the religion He founded, no matter in what form. Maybe the Copts would seem familiar, but all the rest of it.…” He tried to shake off the morose thought.
“The world has changed,” Priest Viernes offered.
Cardinal Mendosa managed a quick smile. “Yes, it has. And so, I suspect, has Christ.”
* * *
In silence Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung rose from the table and turned portentously away from the other men.
“Surely, Cardinal,” said Cardinal O’Higgins, “you cannot fix yourself in such strong opposition to the Pope.”
“What Pope? We have no Pope. We have a travesty!” Cardinal Jung’s round face was rosy, his eyes showing a sulphurous tinge. “How can any of you endorse the rule of this Chinese woman?”
“We have a Pope,” said Cardinal O’Higgins, his expression stern.
“And you are taking a risk, speaking out this way,” warned Cardinal Montebranco. “We have had trouble enough without direct and deliberate rebellion.”
“You do not support her,” Cardinal Jung accused. “Yet you acquiesce in her reign. How can you justify such hypocrisy, when you are committed to maintaining the Church as she has been maintained for century upon century?”
“We aren’t doing quite that,” said Cardinal Tondocello softly. “Or the rich would still ride horses into the churches and cathedrals.” No one could be certain whether he was making a joke or not, but few of them laughed.
Cardinal O’Higgins took up his point again. “We are the servants of the Church, and little though we may like it, we are her guardians. This woman is not just a woman. She is the head of this Church.”
“She has no business being that,” said Cardinal Jung emphatically. He smoothed his cassock and swung back around. “It is our disgrace that we permit her to bring shame on this great Church, to plunder her and expose her to the scrutiny of the world.”
Cardinal Sinclair, seated next to Cardinal Hetre, said, “It is a shame we brought on ourselves. There is no reason for us to compound it by disgracing our calling further.”
Cardinal Tondocello crossed himself. “I abhor the woman but I revere the position she holds. If she acts in ways I cannot approve, it is still acceptable as long as she wears the tiara.” His voice was thready, faint from illness that was once again taking hold of him.
“You speak as if she has authority,” said Cardinal Jung with disgust.
“But she has authority; she is Pope,” said Cardinal Bakony with less certainty than Cardinal O’Higgins had shown. “She was brought here to be Pope because we could not avoid her election. Have any of you forgotten what it was like, writing that name, in Chinese?”
Cardinal Montebranco crossed himself, saying with strong emotion, “I never want to experience such again.”
“That is making this Church a laughing-stock. No wonder there are riots everywhere, with this appalling creature making her calamitous decrees as if she had the right. We know how great her errors are, and we have not stopped her.” Cardinal Jung looked directly at Cardinal Hetre, who was staring at him with a great deal of interest. “Every one of you knows in your soul that this woman is a tragedy for the Church, that Catholics the world over are being betrayed by her pretense of reform which is nothing more than the obliteration of our Church.”
“She keeps within the teachings of Jesus,” said Cardinal Llanos, with clear disapproval. “Except when it suits her purposes.”
“Yes,” said Cardinal Jung. “Just so. The opening of the Vatican Library is one example of her caprice, but it is a minor thing compared to what she has done regarding marriag
e and the conduct of married people, to say nothing of her tolerance of those who have sinful sexual practices. Her encouragement of birth control devices and other methods of contraception is a flagrant disregard for everything the Church has stood for these two thousand years.” He paraded the length of the table, pleased that eight of his colleagues were forced to turn around in their chairs in order to look at him. “I say it is time to be rid of her. The world situation is precarious, and she might well prove sufficient to tip the balance from peace to war. We cannot tolerate that.”
“I thought she was against war,” said Cardinal O’Higgins. “Every statement she has made has been against conflict and the settlement of arguments by violence. Surely she would not change now.”
Cardinal Jung scoffed openly. “Oh, she says these things well enough. So does King Hassan, but he has tanks on all his borders and his armed jets fly over his neighbors daily. That maniac in Indonesia says he only wants peace, but he is preparing death squads to attack throughout the South Pacific. His peace is the same peace that this Chinese woman advocates. And it should not surprise you that she has taken such a stance. Communism may be uncertain in Europe, but it thrives in China, and it has ever been the sworn enemy of the Church. Yet here is the Chinese woman on the Throne of Saint Peter. She is from the People’s Republic, and that means she is still in the control of Premier Zuo, no matter what she has told us.”
“We don’t know that,” said Cardinal Tsukamara. “There has been no contact between them since she told us of her intention to break with Premier Zuo. Vatican Security has reported this to be true.” He folded his arms and watched Cardinal Jung.
“You can say that, for there has been only minor upheaval in Japan,” the Swiss remarked.
“Little you know,” countered Cardinal Tsukamara, anger in his eyes although his face was placid. “There have been riots in Tokyo and Kyoto. Two churches were burned in the last month. One Franciscan monastery was broken into and the place wrecked. There are Christians in Japan, too, Cardinal Jung, and they are as divided in their loyalties as the Christians of the Americas and Europe.”
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