The Secret Cardinal (30 page)

“As I recall, Saint Ignatius Loyola lived a very
full
life before changing his ways,” Donoher said as he eyed the fit of Grin's cassock. “Regardless, you are more believable as a priest than a Swiss Guard.”

“Dressed like this—I'll bet God's going to zap me as soon as he has a clear shot.”

“My personal view of God is that of a just being who combines infinite forgiveness with a wry sense of humor.”

“If this getup helps our cause, I can put up with a few guffaws from the Almighty. So, the chapel is clean?”

“As the proverbial whistle,” Donoher replied, disappointed. “No sign of any clandestine devices was found inside or out.”

“Which shifts suspicion onto the cardinals. It's still possible we're up against a new technology.”

Donoher nodded. “Yes, but as your hero Occam would suggest, we must look to the more likely cause first, no matter how unpalatable it
may be. While the conclave is in session, I expect you and the sweeper teams to leave no stone unturned.”

“You realize this search will take time. What happens if a new pope is elected before we have our answers?” Grin asked.

“Then we may never know if a cardinal has indeed betrayed the Church.”

 

 

AFTER THE CARDINAL ELECTORS vacated their rooms, Grin met in the lobby of Domus Sanctae Marthae with several plainclothes members of the Swiss Guard and the two trustworthy technicians specified in the Apostolic Constitution to assist the camerlengo in ensuring the secrecy and security of the conclave. The two technicians, Aldo and Tommaso, looked tired from a long night of sweeping the Sistine Chapel and adjacent rooms in the palace for electronic listening devices. The guards detailed to the search snapped to attention as Grin approached.

“That's okay, guys,” he told them. “Who's in charge?”

A lean young man with chiseled features and hair the color of straw stepped forward. “I am. Lieutenant Tag Jordan.”

“Okay, Tag, please tell your men to take it down a notch. I appreciate your professionalism and all, but it's not required.”

“But it is,” Jordan countered. “You represent the camerlengo, and he
is
the caretaker of the Church. We will treat you no differently from a personal representative of the pope. If it will make you more comfortable, I can have the men stand at ease.”

“Please.”

Jordan issued the order in crisp German, and the soldiers spread their feet shoulder-width apart and folded their hands behind their backs. Each stood so ramrod straight that plumb bobs could have been calibrated against them for accuracy.

“Gentlemen,” Grin began, “we have a lot of ground to cover and not much time to do it. Also keep in mind that the rooms we're searching belong to the cardinal electors, so treat their personal property with the appropriate respect. This respect complements another
aspect of our search—we don't want anyone to know we were here, so the rooms are to be left as we found them. Getting down to particulars, we are looking for any device capable of sending or receiving a message. If you find anything, notify the sweepers or me and we'll come check it out. The sweepers and I will be circulating through the building looking for any listening devices that may have been planted. Any questions?”

There were none.

“Good,” Grin said. “Let's get to work.”

43

Gentle arcs of water streamed from the galleon's sixteen cannons, an endless broadside from the centerpiece of the
Fontana della Galera
. The sails of the ornate and intricately rigged bronze vessel were forever furled about the crossbars, and on the prow the figure of a young boy blew a spray of water through a horn.

Donoher let his thoughts wander as the sight and sound of rippling water eased the tension in his mind. It was nearing one o'clock in the afternoon on a cool, clear day, and the shadow cast by the Hall of Bramante and the Palezzetto del Belvedere now covered the ship and half of the fountain. In another hour, the rest of the long narrow courtyard would slip into shadow. Donoher stood along the side still in sunlight, absorbing the warmth before he returned to the conclave.

Grin, still clad in priestly garb, emerged from the palezzetto and strode purposefully toward the camerlengo.

“A euro cent for your thoughts,” Grin offered as he approached.

“You'd receive a mighty poor return on that investment.”

“Oh.”

“I was just recalling a conversation I had with Nolan before this all began. He asked if I had yet grown so accustomed to the splendor of my surroundings that I no longer noticed them.” Donoher nodded his head toward the seventeenth-century fountain. “In the whole of the Vatican, this place is one of my favorites. There's an inscription on the ship:
The papal fleet does not pour out flames, but sweet water that quenches the fires of war
.”

“A worthy sentiment, history notwithstanding.”

“Of the two hundred and sixty-three men who have succeeded Saint Peter as bishop of Rome, only a handful ever sent men into battle,” Donoher countered calmly. “What's nice about today is that there are no tourists, making for a most welcome reprieve.”

“I heard about the black smoke.”

“The only good news of the day, unless you have something to report.”

“That depends on how you look at it. We've searched about a quarter of the apartments, and we've found only a few replacement batteries for hearing aids. Either your fellow cardinals are Luddites, or they left all their gadgetry at home.”

“I suspect a combination of the two, though the few of my brethren who comfortably employ such devices turned them over to my office before the start of the conclave. So you'll be back at it this afternoon?”

“Just as soon as they lock the doors to the chapel.”

“Then we both should be heading back. Please walk with me.”

The camerlengo set the pace, his worn knees creaking audibly beneath the crimson choir dress. Abrupt changes in the weather, such as the cold front that crossed the Italian peninsula just before dawn, wreaked havoc with his battered joints.

“I take it there's been no word from Nolan,” Donoher said.

“None, but I don't expect to hear from him until he has something important to say.”

“It's night there now. I hope the Lord provides our people with a bright star to guide their journey.”

“Amen to that,” Grin replied.

44

After the ballot papers for the afternoon session were distributed, the junior cardinal deacon ushered the master of papal liturgical ceremonies and the masters of ceremonies out of the Sistine Chapel and closed the doors. The cardinals were once more in conclave.

From his seat near the altar, Donoher studied his fellow cardinals, wondering what kinds of subtle deal-making had transpired during the midday break. Ryff, the German, effectively scuttled his candidacy the previous evening, throwing his support behind Magni. It was a shrewd move, and one that played on the old adage that fat popes followed skinny ones. At sixty-nine and with proportions matching those of Pope John XXIII, Magni's pontificate would certainly be far shorter than Leo's impressive reign. In supporting Magni, Ryff demonstrated solidarity with the European cardinals, who as a block controlled nearly fifty percent of the votes. The German cardinal could afford to wait, and his sacrifice would not be forgotten the next time around.

Though Magni surged to thirty-three votes in the morning's second ballot, it was clear that Europe wasn't voting as a monolithic bloc. In his conversations between sessions, Donoher detected in some of Europe's non-Italian cardinals a sentiment that the wrong European stepped aside. Donoher also noted that the loss of Gagliardi took some of the wind out of the unified Italians' sails.

Escalante garnered twenty-five votes, drawing support not only from Latin America but portions of the United States, Canada, and the Philippines. Oromo's candidacy was unusual in that it combined the undeniable growing importance of Africa to the Roman Catholic Church with a charismatic man who promised to be a staunch defender of the faith and a powerful voice to the Third World. As a Vatican insider, the Sudanese cardinal was well known by his fellows in
the college, and this familiarity, Donoher believed, helped him retain his base of support through the consolidating ballots.

Yin and Velu, too, held onto their core of support, and even gathered a few additional votes, though not enough as yet to threaten the front-runners. Donoher was certain that those two names were the subject of much discussion during the break, with cardinals hoping Velu would follow Ryff's example and others politely lobbying against the quixotic candidacy of the endangered bishop of Shanghai.

Ryff rose from his seat near the center of the chapel, beneath Michelangelo's
Creation of Eve
.

“My Most Eminent Lord,” the German called out, his voice directed at the camerlengo, “a question, if I may, before the next vote.”

Donoher nodded. All eyes were on Ryff.

“Is there any news of Bishop Yin?” Ryff asked.

After scuttling his own candidacy, the German became the perfect choice of the Europeans to address this issue. If asked by any of the remaining papabili, the question might have appeared self-serving, an attempt to free up fifteen votes, but from Ryff it expressed the sincere curiosity of the conclave.

What Donoher found interesting about Yin's support, at least as he perceived it, was that it came from all over the globe. The other papabili found initial backing from ethnic or geographic blocs, then drew in uncommitted electors as they gained momentum. Yin's core defied conventional wisdom, and Donoher believed these electors represented a different dynamic in this conclave—an expression of pure faith that God had given them a sign.

“Bishop Yin and his liberators are at present seeking a way out of China. At the same time, the Chinese government is vigorously attempting to prevent his departure. The situation is dire but not without hope. I am certain the bishop of Shanghai remains in your prayers as he does in mine during this most difficult time.”

Murmurs of approval rippled through the chapel, the desire for the safe deliverance of those in danger unanimous among the cardinal electors.

“And now,” Donoher continued, “with the guidance of the Holy
Spirit, let us continue with the sacred task of electing the next supreme pontiff.”

 

 

“OROMO,” CAIN ANNOUNCED, reading off the final ballot.

Donoher didn't need to hear the name called to know that after three days the conclave remained deadlocked. Though the tallies varied by a few votes, the order of the candidates remained unchanged.

The ballots and notes were again collected and burned, the coils of black smoke symbolic of the dour mood that permeated the chapel. After nine rounds of balloting, the cardinals were no closer to electing a new pope than on the opening day of the conclave. They felt the eyes of the world's Catholics upon them, a billion souls urging them to choose wisely and challenging them to rise above the status quo.

Yet the man who held the narrowest of leads in the balloting was also the safest, least objectionable of the papabili, the embodiment of time-honored Vatican tradition. Pope Leo XIV would be a tough act to follow, but the waiting Church wanted and needed an encore.

Donoher left his seat, said a brief prayer before the altar, and turned to face the other cardinals.

“My Esteemed Brothers, I believe our present impasse requires a pause in our deliberations. Per article seventy-four of the Apostolic Constitution, I suspend voting for one day to provide us with time for prayer and reflection.”

45

GANSU, CHINA

During the second night, the BATs crossed from Inner Mongolia into the harsh and barren Gansu Province, a region traditionally considered by the Chinese as the outer limit of the Middle Kingdom. A thin sliver of a moon hung high above, casting an eerie light on the mountainous terrain. Early in tonight's flight, they passed over a remote section of the Great Wall, the famous barrier against invasion from the north.

“It is a shame we are not following the ancient route through the Hexi Corridor,” Yin mused as he gazed at the landscape below. “I recall it was most impressive.”

“Sightseeing is not on the agenda,” Kilkenny said curtly.

Tao scowled at Kilkenny and placed a gloved hand on Yin's. “I've traveled quite a bit in Gansu, and it was spectacular.”

Tao's instinct told her Yin was feeling homesick for a land he hadn't seen in three decades. And once out of China, he could never return. As he passed into the west, everything Yin had ever known was slipping away. Yin nodded, and Tao glimpsed a hint of his warm smile through his dark visor. The quiet bishop returned his gaze to the windswept land below.

“If our circumstances were different,” Tao said, “what would you recommend we see?”

“The land below us has much history and much beauty. The Buddhist caves at Dunhuang and Bingling Si contain magnificent works of art. Maiji Shan near Tianshui is also quite spectacular. If we were on foot—”

“God forbid,” Kilkenny interrupted.

“—then we would have little choice but to follow the Hexi Corridor,”
Yin continued. “It was the only route west. From the south, the corridor follows the edge of the Qilian Shan Mountains—the foothills of Tibet. Only desert and mountains are to the north. Chinese civilization originated in Gansu, and control of the corridor was very important. All trade passed through here, and the Great Wall protected much of the corridor. It was a critical piece of the Silk Road. Many saw the importance of this region, and control over it changed hands many times. The descendants of all those conquests are still here.”