The Secret Cardinal (7 page)

Donoher nodded slowly. “I grieve her death as much as you, more perhaps for the part I played in it. In the end, the decision was hers, and she felt the risk was critical to the deception.”

“Was I part of that deception?”

“You were an afterthought. I knew Hwong was placing herself in mortal danger and felt certain she would be attacked on her morning run. I crossed her path with yours in hope of improving the odds of her survival. I apologize for placing you at risk without your knowledge, but it was absolutely necessary.”

Kilkenny stared at the hard drive, trying to imagine what information could be so valuable that acquiring it cost a human life.

“If we now have the proof of what happened in the theater, why not announce it to the world and use international pressure to demand Yin's release?”

“As damning as the clip is, it provides us no leverage,” Donoher explained. “The international outrage that followed the Tiananmen Square massacre had no effect on the Chinese government. They won't bow in this matter. Better we act as though we don't know the truth to conceal our intentions. And when Yin is free, he can unveil the truth to the world.”

5

Kilkenny carefully studied the holographic image of a building that looked like a long, nearly windowless block of concrete. The solitary wing of Chifeng Prison was part of a complex of buildings that housed a large population of inmates. These buildings comprised only a third of the structures on the prison grounds. The brickyard, where inmates were reformed through hellish hard labor, accounted for the remainder.

“Display at two-hundred-meter radius,” Kilkenny said.

The computer controlling the imaging chamber responded to Kilkenny's voice and zoomed out to bring the rest of the penal facility and some of the surrounding countryside into view. The prison stood in the grasslands just north of the city whose name it shared. Also known as the Xinsheng Brickyard, the laogai's kilns produced most of the masonry used by the nearby city of a half million people.

The model, which appeared atop an imaging table six feet in diameter, revealed elements of Chifeng Prison at an extraordinarily fine level of detail. From local topography and roads to door swings and light switches—anything that could be gleaned from architectural drawings, satellite images, and even the recollections of released prisoners had been painstakingly assembled into a computer-generated simulation. Kilkenny could view the prison at day or night, study the patterns of guard patrols and deliveries, even watch stacks of bricks grow in time-lapse fashion, only to disappear into railcars every Thursday.

After combing through the information gathered by Donoher's people in China, Kilkenny found he lacked only two things: the location of
Yin's cell and a recent photograph of the man. Of the two images he had of Yin, one was a photograph taken in the early 1950s when Yin was a young man, and the other was a very grainy image culled from the Beijing video clip.

Kilkenny stood braced against the hologram table, the palms of his hands pressed onto the thick black ring of rubber-coated steel that encircled the base of the imaging chamber, puzzling over how to safely breach the laogai's security. At a nearby console of multi-screened Mac Pro computers sat Bill Grinelli, Kilkenny's friend and MARC's resident computer guru. Grin held a frothy cappuccino in one hand while the other danced across a keyboard, working his technological wizardry.

A keen intellect and a mischievous sense of humor had earned Grin his nickname, and he wore the appellation as a badge of honor. A few years Kilkenny's senior, Grin still viewed life with the youthful enthusiasm of a college freshman. What remained of his receding hair dangled from the back of his head in a brown-gray ponytail. The goatee that encircled his trademark smile grew down from his chin into an often-stroked point. On his forearm, Grin sported a tattoo of an impish elf seated on a crescent moon scattering pixie dust.

Kilkenny had little trouble enlisting his friend's aid in the effort to liberate Yin Daoming. Just one viewing of the Beijing video had put Grin on the next flight to Rome. He admitted a twinge of envy over Kilkenny's private audience with the pope, despite the fact that his personal religious stance lay somewhere between lapsed Catholic and agnostic. The pair divided the work between them, with Kilkenny tackling operational planning while Grin dealt with technical issues.

Grin's only disappointment with the new project came when he discovered that Vatican Intelligence did not occupy space in any of the historic structures owned by the tiny nation. But what it lacked in dramatic views and Renaissance grandeur was more than balanced by the quality and dedication of its analysts and the tools the Vatican provided for them to do their job. The underground facility, located beneath the building that housed the Vatican Mosaic Studio and known as the catacombs by those who labored there, was both stylish and modern, and
Kilkenny and Grin had the necessary space and equipment to do their work.

“So, how are you coming?” Kilkenny asked.

“I've tickled the laogai's computer network as well as its link to the mother ship in Beijing, so I'm pretty sure we can keep them out of the loop when your team goes in. And if Donoher can provide me with a few people who speak Chinese like natives, I'm pretty sure I can wreak six kinds of havoc with their emergency responders. You asked for a smoke screen, and I think I can deliver.”

“Well, at least one of us is making some progress.”

“Still banging your head against the wall?” Grin asked.

“With lumps to prove it. There are really only two ways to do this: Hard or soft. Going in hard means guns blazing and a lot of people ending up dead. And to take on a place this size and successfully pull off a snatch-and-grab, I basically need to turn a couple platoons of Chinese volunteers into commandos. On top of that are the twin problems of quietly moving that many armed men into position and then getting them out with Yin after all hell breaks loose.”

“How do you think the pope would feel about killing in order to get Yin out of jail?”

“His stance on war has been very consistent,” Kilkenny replied, “so I'm pretty sure he'd veto any plan that includes the words
acceptable enemy losses
.”

“Got any soft ideas?”

“I'm still toying with their regular delivery cycle, but part of the problem is that it
is
regular. Same guy drives up in the same truck at the same time every week. He knows the guards, and they know him.”

“So if anything changes, the guards' Spidey-senses start a-tingling.”

“Soft is clearly the way to tackle this beast, but finding a vulnerability that we can exploit . . .” Kilkenny's voice trailed off as he stared at the long prairie grasses surrounding the laogai. “If I can just figure out how to get Yin five hundred yards outside the perimeter, the odds of getting him all the way out jump to sixty percent. And they increase with every additional mile the team covers after that.”

“If regular deliveries are a problem, what about
irregular
deliveries?” Grin asked. “They know the guy who makes the rice and gruel run, and the guy who picks up the bricks, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How about prisoners?”

“Those are scheduled as well,” Kilkenny said.

“Most, but not all. According to the records, Yin's last road trip wasn't scheduled.”

Kilkenny had read the report and realized that Grin was right. Yin's trip to Beijing and back was a unique event and not a normal prisoner transfer. Suddenly Kilkenny found himself pondering how to manufacture an event that would allow movement in and out of the prison without arousing suspicion.

“Did you ever see
Troy
?” Kilkenny asked.

“The movie, or the suburb of Detroit?” Grin asked with a straight face.

“The movie,” Kilkenny replied, ignoring the bait.

“The book was better, but I read it in the original Greek,” Grin remarked without a hint of braggadocio.

“The Trojans accepted the horse from the Achaeans because they believed it was a peace offering. We have to give the folks running that prison something they will accept, no questions asked. That's the only way this can work.”

6

Three days after his audience with the pontiff, Kilkenny returned to the Redemptoris Mater Chapel, accompanied by Donoher and Grin. Archbishop Sikora announced them and, on the pope's signal, retired from the chapel. In preparation for this private audience, three chairs had been placed in a semicircle in front of the papal throne.

“Sit here,” the pope said to Kilkenny, indicating the chair directly in front of the throne.

Kilkenny sat with Grin on his right and Donoher on his left. The pope studied the three men for a moment, then focused his attention on Kilkenny.

“Cardinal Donoher believes you have found a way to free Bishop Yin. Please, tell me what you have in mind.”

“Your Holiness,” Kilkenny began, “the plan I'm proposing hinges on a single fact: Beijing will not let Bishop Yin out of prison until after he is dead. And although Beijing appears content to let him live out the rest of his days in a cell, the bishop was actually sentenced to death for his crimes. The Chinese justice system rarely executes condemned prisoners immediately after sentencing. Instead, it allows these doomed individuals the chance to reform themselves through a few years of hard labor. If, after this probationary period, the court feels progress toward reform has been made, the death sentence is commuted to life imprisonment. If not, then the prisoner is executed. No attempt has ever been made to reform Bishop Yin, so his original sentence still stands. A man in his situation could be executed at
any time
—it's simply a matter of paperwork.”

“You propose a deception,” the pope said keenly.

“Yes, Your Holiness.”

The pope smiled conspiratorially. “Continue.”

“Until recently, Chinese executions were carried out with a bullet to the back of the head. But in an effort to be more efficient and appear more humane, China has begun using lethal injection,” Kilkenny explained. “Most Chinese prisons are not equipped to perform this type of execution, so the Chinese employ a fleet of mobile execution trucks. I propose to field our own execution truck and to drive right up to Chifeng Prison with all the correct paperwork authorizing the execution of Yin Daoming. The bishop will be brought out to the truck, apparently executed, and then smuggled out of the country.”

“But what of Beijing?” the pope asked. “Won't they know your execution order is false?”

“Eventually, but to paraphrase an old Irish blessing, ‘May Yin be across the border two hours before the Chinese know he isn't dead.' Like any bureaucracy, it'll take a while for the paperwork to move through the system. I'm counting on that lag time. And my associate, Mister Grinelli, has a few tricks to ensure Beijing remains blind to what's happening in Chifeng.”

“This is true?” the pope asked Grin.

“China has spent a lot of money on communications technology in recent years, but there isn't a bit of it I can't put to sleep.”

“We will do everything possible to protect Yin and the people who go in to rescue him,” Kilkenny promised.

The pope bowed his head and considered for a moment all that he had heard, then arched an eye toward Donoher.

“Cardinal Donoher, what do you think?” the pope asked.

“Your Holiness, I believe this plan has a fine chance to succeed. It's simple, and it relies on guile rather than violence to achieve our aim. Bishop Yin could well be in Rome before Beijing realizes what has transpired.”

The pope took Donoher's advice with a nod, then slipped his right hand into the left sleeve of his simar and withdrew a piece of fine paper folded in thirds.

“In anticipation that you would do as I asked, I have prepared this
letter authorizing you to proceed. It is written in my hand and bears the seal of my holy office.”

The pope handed the document to Donoher, then turned back to Kilkenny. A wry smile curled the corners of the pontiff's mouth, and his blue eyes shone warmly. He shook an admonishing finger at Kilkenny.

“When stealing from dragons, it is wise to be gone long before the beasts awaken.”

7

The pope sat quietly in the Redemptoris Mater Chapel, his hands slowly working the smooth beads of an old familiar rosary. His prayers were interwoven with meditations on the Immaculate Heart of Mary, for he believed it was only through the Blessed Mother's intervention that his life had been spared from an assassin's bullets early in his pontificate.

He prayed as he had throughout his long life, his daily devotions to a faith that had sustained him through years of suffering and the burden of more than a quarter century as the successor of Saint Peter, whose bones rested nearby beneath the altar of the basilica. One day, the pope knew, his body would be placed in the crypt with those of the other men who had preceded him as bishop of Rome.

As he prayed, the pope heard a distant sound as if waves crashing on the shore. Thinking it the rushing traffic outside, he ignored the sound and continued with his devotions. But the waves continued to crash, each building in volume and intensity until the sound of water enveloped him. Then the crashing disappeared.

“Jedrek,” a familiar voice spoke softly.

Hearing the nickname used only by his family and closest friends, the pope paused in his recitation. He detected a faint floral scent in the air, a garden in springtime.

“Jedrek,” the voice called again, this time more distinct. A lyrical voice, familiar, but from his distant past.