The Secret Cardinal (34 page)

It took him a while to recall the logo exactly—he'd last drawn it in the margins of his notebooks in high school. As he doodled, the phone purred and he answered it.

“Gagliardi was our Judas,” Donoher said, sounding tired and depressed. “It was all a scheme to get the mafia's tentacles back into the Vatican Bank. What a mess. Before I return to the Vatican, I plan to pay a visit to Gagliardi's nephew to inform him of his uncle's passing and perhaps send a message of my own.”

“Gagliardi is dead?” Grin asked.

“He passed while I was with him,” Donoher replied. “I went to the hospital this morning mad enough to kill Gagliardi, but in the end, I could only pity the man.”

“Want some good news?”

“You have to ask?”

“I'm pretty sure Nolan plans to cross out of China sometime tomorrow, which from his point of view starts in just a few hours.”

“Do you know where?”

“I'm still working on that—the second part of his message is trickier than the first. I'll let you know as soon as I have something.”

“God willing, tomorrow will be a bright and glorious day indeed.”

“Speaking of good news, I hear this day off has been a real boon for the environment,” Grin offered. “All that black smoke billowing out
of the Sistine Chapel really jacked up the city's smog index, not to mention global warming.”

Donoher laughed, forgetting for just a moment the burden he carried. “Now I see why you and Nolan get along so well. You've got a wicked sense of humor.”

“Between Nolan and me, all puns are intended.”

“Keep at that message,” Donoher said. “Once Nolan and his team are across the border, I want to be ready to move them as far from China as humanly possible.”

53

ROME

Donoher's driver dropped him off in front of a four-story townhouse in the Trastevere District of Rome. Like its neighbors, the building was well maintained for its age. The ground floor was clad in a rusticated base of cut stone blocks; the upper floors were dressed in tan stucco with smooth limestone trim decoratively framing the windows. An arched opening in the center of the symmetrical facade provided entry into the building. At shoulder height next to the opening was a polished bronze sign:

 

G. CUSUMANO
LIBRAIO ANTIQUARIO

 

He rang the bell and waited. A small closed-circuit camera mounted off to the side of the door about twelve feet off the ground relayed Donoher's image to a monitor inside the townhouse. A moment later, Guglielmo Cusumano appeared at the door.

“Your Eminence, what can I do for you?” Cusumano asked.

“I am afraid I come bearing sad news.”

“My uncle?”

Donoher nodded. “He passed just a short time ago. I was with him at the end.”

Cusumano withdrew into his thoughts for a moment, then collected himself once again. “My manners, please, come in. Can I get you anything?”

“A glass of wine perhaps.”

“I think I can find something suitable to toast uncle's memory,” Cusumano said.

The ground floor of the townhouse was laid out in large reading rooms and served as Cusumano's place of business as a dealer in fine antique books. The air carried the barest scent of old leather and vellum; a state-of-the-art environmental system maintained ideal conditions for book preservation inside the townhouse. If the furnishings in the shop and the number of volumes on display were any indication, Cusumano was very successful at his trade.

They climbed a spiral staircase to the second floor, and Cusumano left his guest in his personal library while he went in search of the vintage he had in mind. He returned a few moments later with a pair of broad-bowled glasses and a well-aged Barolo. Cusumano poured two generous servings and handed one to the camerlengo.

“To my uncle, a man of faith and family all the years of his life.” The nephew settled into a plush leather sofa.

“To Cardinal Gagliardi,” Donoher added. “May his soul find the rest that it deserves.”

The Barolo lived up to its reputation as one of Italy's finest red wines, this mature example offering a rich bouquet to the nose and a complex, flavorful palate. In the Corktown of his youth, Donoher recalled the tradition of toasting the deceased with a fine whiskey. The Poles of Detroit's Hamtramck enclave did the same, only with vodka. Spirits for the spirit.

“Death came quickly,” Donoher said. “His heart could take no more.”

“I'm thankful you were with him at the end. No one should die alone.”

“I agree. In the end, your uncle was able to make a full confession and unburden himself of all the troubles of this world.”

“Then he meets God with a clear conscience.”

“This is a fine wine,” Donoher said, changing the subject, “and no doubt expensive. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“My uncle always said that wine, like talent, was meant to be shared. Wasn't Christ's first miracle the wine at the wedding feast in Cana?”

“He also shared wine with his closest friends at the Last Supper, though I doubt it was a Barolo. Your uncle was quite proud of you, and I can see you've done well for yourself,” Donoher said as he surveyed the room. “I would never have guessed the trade in old books was so financially rewarding.”

“I deal in rare, prized volumes. Just this morning, I completed the sale of an exquisite first edition of Palladio's
I Quattro Libri dell' Architettura
to an American collector. Rare books are works of art as well as sound investments.”

“Such a unique and profitable enterprise no doubt requires specialized accounting and bank services. Your uncle mentioned your interest in our bank at the Vatican.”

“Did he?”

“Yes, and regardless of who becomes the next pope, I'm sure you will be pleased to know that regulatory oversight of the IOR will be most exacting. Many of the laws governing our bank, though providing a desirable measure of privacy, also make it difficult to monitor accounts for criminal activity. The IOR is not just a bank, it is the Church's bank, and we must hold it to a higher standard. Otherwise, some unscrupulous persons might try to launder money through our accounts or obtain valid letters of credit for fraudulent purposes. We won't allow the Church's bank to be abused by anyone.”

Cusumano leaned back, slowly swirling the deep red wine in his glass, his eyes narrow and fixed on the camerlengo. A hint of a smile curled the corner of Donoher's mouth, the message delivered.

“Are you a religious man?” Donoher asked.

“In my own fashion.”

“Then you are of course familiar with the concept of excommunication. Are you aware that of the grave sins resulting in this form of censure, there are twelve that only the pope can absolve? Attacking or murdering a prelate, or
aiding
those who do so, is one. If you, for example, were to commit such a terrible sin, even I, the camerlengo of the Church, could not restore you.”

“Then it would be best to avoid such a sin, especially now when there is no pope.”

“It would indeed.”

Donoher finished his wine and set the empty glass on the table beside his chair. Cusumano did not offer to refill it.

“One final matter, before I go,” Donoher said. “The laws of the Vatican are not the same as the laws of Italy. One major difference is the death penalty. Though not imposed by a pope for well over a century, capital punishment remains an option. And for murderous crimes against the Church, I don't think Italy would quibble over extradition.”

54

VATICAN CITY

“Have you learned anything?” Donoher asked upon his return to the workroom.

Grin was standing by the imaging chamber studying several hundred miles of mountainous terrain.

“In his latest message, Nolan is playing seven degrees of trivial separation. The first line reads MISTY MOUNTAIN HOP 111, which I've taken literally as he's crossing the mountains on the first of November. But “Misty Mountain Hop” is also a song on Led Zeppelin's fourth album. In the second line, ZOSO is the graphic symbol representing Jimmy Page, the lead guitarist for Led Zeppelin. This symbol first appears in the record sleeve of the aforementioned fourth album.”

“So Nolan is pointing you to this particular recording.”

“More like beating me over the head with it. Zeppelin's fourth album is a fan favorite and considered by many to be their best. Personally, I prefer
Physical Graffiti,
but that's just me. In telling me ZOSO BEST 41, I read not only that album number four is number one—the best—but also that I should look at the fourth song on side one. That's tough to do in the CD age, but I'm old enough to own a copy of the album on vinyl, and the fourth song on side one is ‘Stairway to Heaven.' It's a classic.”

“Okay. What does it mean?”

“The name ‘Stairway to Heaven' was coined by the fourth-century Indian poet Kalidasa to describe the Himalayas,” Grin explained. “Display view one.”

The hologram in the imaging chamber dissolved and was instantly replaced with a view of a significantly larger piece of real estate.

“The Himalayas are approximately eighteen hundred miles in length, running from Afghanistan in the west to India's Arunachal Pradesh in the east.”

“That doesn't narrow it down much.”

“No, it doesn't. When most people consider the term
Stairway to Heaven
in relation to the Himalayas, they think of Tibet and Nepal.”

“That's where Nolan intends to cross?” Donoher asked.

“No. The BATs are designed for low-level flying, so I'm not sure if they can handle that kind of altitude. Even if they could, our people would probably need bottled oxygen. And then there's the weather—it's a little late in the season to be crossing the Himalayas on foot or in a motorized kite. I kicked this scenario around a dozen different ways, and what really made me reject it is that this clue is too straightforward. It's not like Nolan. That's why I had to dig deeper, and I finally figured it out. Do you know the film
Fast Times at Ridgemont High
?”

“Should I?”

“Only if you enjoy well-written comedy interspersed with teen angst and adolescent coming-of-age trauma, all set in the early eighties.”

“Not exactly at the top of my list,” Donoher replied. “Please continue.”

“This movie featured what was, in my humble opinion, one of Sean Penn's best performances, though after my recent stint in a cassock, I have a newfound appreciation for his later work in
We're No Angels
. But I digress.”

“You most certainly do,” Donoher agreed, tempering his impatience. “How does this film fit in with Nolan's message?”

“In
Fast Times,
the dweeb nicknamed Rat seeks dating advice from the cool guy Damone. Among the pearls of wisdom Damone has to offer is the suggestion that side one of Led Zeppelin's fourth album is the best make-out music ever recorded. This gets us back to ZOSO BEST 41.”

“But that's the album that pointed you to the entire Himalayan range?”

“Yes, but that's not the clue. Rat took Damone's advice but, being a dweeb, got it wrong. During his ill-fated date with the ingenue
Stacy—portrayed by the fetching Jennifer Jason Leigh—Rat played the wrong side of the wrong album.”

“This
is
going somewhere?”

“This reference forces me to acknowledge Nolan's genius. The album Rat used wasn't Zeppelin's fourth album but
Physical Graffiti
. And the song heard playing during the date is not the make-out classic “Stairway to Heaven” but the far superior “Kashmir.” Nolan is heading for Kashmir.”

“Can you show me where?” Donoher asked.

Grin nodded. “Display previous view.”

The hologram dissolved and then reformed to display a three-dimensional view of the troubled Indian state of Jammu and Kashmir. Black lines snaked through the mountainous region, defining the internationally recognized borders. Thinner, dashed lines identified militarized lines of control around disputed territory encroached upon by Pakistan and China. Starting high in the glaciers of western Tibet, the Indus flowed northwest through Kashmir and into Pakistan.

“What you're looking at is an area roughly the size of Michigan,” Grin explained, “and where it abuts China is about as long as the shoreline from Toledo to Mackinaw City. Biggest difference, aside from the lack of fudge, is obviously the terrain. Where China touches Kashmir is a region called Ladakh.”

“Where do you think he'll cross?”

“A couple of large valleys run diagonally from Tibet through Ladakh—the Indus runs down the middle of the larger one. If I had to guess, I think he'd let the geography lead him out of China.”

“Is there any place nearby where we can land an aircraft?”

“At Leh,” Grin answered. “It's the heart of Ladakh and the only commercial airport.”

“Once they're across the border, they'll be in India, but illegally and without documentation,” Donoher mused, “and with the exception of Nolan, all looking very much like Chinese soldiers.”

“Or asylum seekers. Do you think India would send Yin back?”

“I doubt it—India and China are not the best of neighbors—but by the same token we don't want the Indians tossing our people in jail
either. We need to place somebody in Kashmir to help smooth things over once they arrive. And we probably need a friendly word through the back channel from Washington to tilt the situation in our favor.”

“Barnett?”