Magnificat (11 page)

“It’s ticklish,” said the President with the slight, candid smile it had taken him years to perfect. “We’ve got separation of Church and State, Cardinal, and if we take action on your behalf, as you ought to remember from your civics classes in high school, we leave ourselves open to criticism that we have not honored that basic philosophy of the Constitution.” He folded his hands on the desk. “I don’t know if I can help you.”

Cardinal Bradeston knew that he had a very few minutes remaining in his appointment, so he abandoned most of his arguments in favor of the one he thought might have the most political weight; he did not bother with subtle preparation. “Is this because it’s about Catholicism, or because it’s about an Asian woman?”

President Carey sat up a little straighter. “Well, well, well, well, you can hit below the belt, can’t you, Eminence?”

“It wasn’t what I—” Cardinal Bradeston started only to be cut off.

“Oh, don’t spoil the effect, Bradeston. You found the Achilles heel in my posture and you used it. Good for you.” He looked up. “I used to look out at the Rose Garden, but it’s too distracting.”

Cardinal Bradeston did his best not to hold his breath. In his mind he repeated the Fifty-first Psalm, his thoughts turned inward to keep him from revealing how much he wanted to sway the President to support him and his request. When one of the telephones jangled, he almost jumped.

President Carey thumbed the intercom. “Maxine, take care of that for me, will you?”

“At once, Mister President,” the voice on the intercom assured him.

“Now then,” said Houghton Carey when the telephone was silent, “you need an assist to get this woman out of China, and for some reason you have to get her to the Vatican. You mind telling me why?”

“I’m sorry,” said Cardinal Bradeston, looking away. “I am sorry, Mister President, but—”

“I’m sorry too,” said President Carey with false concern. “If I don’t know what I’m endorsing I can’t very well act on it in good conscience, can I? Especially something like this, international, where the repercussions could have pretty serious political fall-out if anything goes wrong.” His teeth flashed in what was supposed to be a smile.

“It’s a very awkward problem, Mister President,” said Cardinal Bradeston, aware that every word he was saying was being recorded by at least three different security organizations.

“So is being accused of getting it wrong, Your Eminence.” He started to rise, his hand extended for a last, cordial handshake. “Well, it’s too bad that I—”

“We need to find her,” Cardinal Bradeston interrupted. He saw that he had the President’s attention. “Without her, the conclave may have to be suspended for an indefinite period, and the Catholic Church cannot continue much longer without a leader. You understand what risks we would run if we had to keep on as we are. We have no means to proceed if there is no Pope.”

“And this woman will make a difference?” Houghton Carey asked, his brows raised inquisitively, his expression one of polite disbelief.

“Yes, we think so,” said Cardinal Bradeston, already dreading how he would have to explain the matter to the President once the widow arrived in Rome.

“Un-huh,” said the President, caution in every aspect.

“And your support could go a long way to…easing the transition.” He wished he had said it better; but short of revealing the details of the election, he could not offer more.

“Is that what Cardinal Mendosa’s doing in China?” President Carey asked, satisfied at the shock he saw in Cardinal Bradeston’s face. “Oh, don’t be so surprised: we knew where he was ten minutes after he got off the plane in Hong Kong.”

“It…has something to do with this, yes,” said Cardinal Bradeston. “It isn’t an official visit.”

“No kidding,” said President Carey with heavy sarcasm. “On his way to the central part of the country and not one diplomatic or parochial stop along the way. No notice sent to the PRC, or to Premier Zuo; nothing formal arranged. What are you up to, Cardinal?”

Cardinal Bradeston sighed and stared out the window. In the garden beyond someone was trimming one of the hedges, with a Marine guard not far away from him. “I truly wish I knew.” He looked back at Houghton Carey, conceding defeat. “Yes, Charles Mendosa is looking for the woman in question.” Then he was rising, extending his hand. “I ask your pardon for intruding in your busy schedule this way and I thank you on behalf of the Holy See for your attention.”

Now that he was off the hook, President Carey did not want to be, for he might be excluded from later developments, which did not suit him, not with an American Cardinal right in the middle of it. “Wait a minute,” he protested. “Charles Mendosa comes from Houston, Cardinal or not. He’s a damned Texan. And now he’s off in the PRC, flying blind from what you say. What are you people up to? And why?”

“We’re trying to find a certain widow,” said Cardinal Bradeston with a great show of patience. “I doubt that’s much of a secret any more. Until we find her, we will not know what to do next.”

“But you need her because of the conclave?” the President said, his brows drawn together. “You priests—the whole Church—are always following your private agendas, that’s the trouble.”

“Unlike politicians?” Cardinal Bradeston countered with a wisp of a smile.

“You got me there,” President Carey allowed, making himself relax and return the smile. “Trouble is, if I tell you yes and the whole thing is a fuck-up, then I’m up to my neck in it. But if it turns out fine, and it gets out that I didn’t do my part, I’m still up to my neck in it.” He nodded once, decisively. “Okay. I tell you what: when you hear from Cardinal Mendosa, you call me—my secretary will give you the numbers to use—and you tell me what you’ve found out. So long as it isn’t going to embarrass this administration or stir up any more religious feeling than’s out there already, I want to do my part. If it looks like it’s going to turn sour, I want you to know that I won’t be able to help you.” He put his big hands flat on the glossy desk. “That’s the deal. I’m not going to haggle about it.”

“What about the Secretary of State?” asked Cardinal Bradeston, not wanting to discover that the whole offer was nothing more than a political gesture, without substance.

“I’ll explain things to her,” said President Carey. “She’ll go along with what I decide on this.” He cocked his head at the Cardinal. “You remember the flak she took at her confirmation hearing because of religion? Be glad it happened. You know she’ll leave this alone after it’s settled.” He rose, once again dwarfing the Cardinal from Boston. “I hear that your guy in Baltimore’s been buzzing around State, too.”

“Cardinal Durand has arranged a few discussions, yes. But as far as I know, the Secretary of State has not agreed to see him.” Cardinal Bradeston kept his neutral expression with some effort.

“But you were kind of hoping I’d clear away some of the—” He made a wide motion as if shoving brush aside.

“We would appreciate it, Mister President, and we would pray for you.” He stood still, his eyes never leaving Houghton Carey’s rugged face.

The President laughed out loud. “Goddam, you guys are canny, as my old grandmother used to say. You hedge your bets better than the best Las Vegas hotshot.” His mirth was gone as quickly as it came. “All right; I’ll call the Secretary of State and tell her to arrange a meeting with Cardinal Durand. But you’d better warn your Baltimore colleague that he’s going to have to be more forthcoming than you’ve been with me if he expects to get anywhere with Abby. She’s a tough and skillful woman, and she’s nobody’s, and I mean
nobody’s
fool. Not even mine.”

“Thank you, Mister President,” said Cardinal Bradeston, trying to decide if he ought to offer a blessing. “It was good of you to give me so much time on such short notice.” He started toward the door, relieved that the very awkward visit was over.

“By the way, Your Eminence,” said the President, “my time is pretty full. I don’t think I can do much with the Secretary of State until you let me know what Mendosa’s up to. You know how it is, I’m sure. You should be able to do that in the next forty-eight hours, shouldn’t you?”

Cardinal Bradeston bit back a sharp retort, though his eyes snapped. He nodded once. “Certainly, Mister President.” He hated having his hand forced this way, but knew it was little enough, given what the Church was asking.

Houghton Carey showed him a predatory grin. “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

Chapter 7

“Why would a journalist be traveling with a member of the clergy of the Roman Catholic Church?” The military officer asking the question still held all of Willie Foot’s documents in his hand, though he had returned Charles Mendosa’s to him.

“I speak Chinese and Mendosa does not,” said Willie promptly, glad that he could offer the truth as an explanation. “I have served as a translator for him before this journey. There was a Catholic meeting, you will recall, on Asian issues in Manila, which I covered, and where I was able to assist Cardinal Mendosa. As it happens, I was on assignment in Rome when he decided to make this trip, and he asked me to accompany him.”

“And why is it that this journey was not arranged through proper diplomatic channels?” the officer inquired. It was quite warm in the characterless roadside building where the army had stopped them. There was a pervasive odor of machine oil still on the air. He looked from Willie to Mendosa. “And why is the churchman not in church garments? It is required of them, is it not? Perhaps he is attempting to reintroduce missionaries to our country.”

Willie relayed this at once, adding, “You better have any answer for that; they’re touchy about missionaries.”

“Tell the…whatever his rank is, address him as one level higher. Tell him that I am not here for any purpose but to speak to one woman near Hongya, that I do not wear clerical garb because I am not here as a priest, and I do not wish to give offence to the Chinese people. Besides,” he added more lightly, “I’d much rather wear what I’ve got on now than a cassock.”

“The churchman is making a joke of us!” the officer accused sharply, eyes unforgiving as he heard amusement in Mendosa’s voice. He took a single, hasty step toward the Cardinal, but was halted by Willie’s answer.

“About the clerical clothing,” said Willie, hastening to provide the required explanation. He went on to relay Mendosa’s comments and said, “I have known Mendosa for some time, Captain. He wears his priest’s clothing only when necessary. He does not approve of the abuse of position and asks for no privilege, thus he clothes himself like the people of his native Texas. He has created a controversy about it within his Church.”

“Has he?” Abruptly the officer signaled to Nigel No. “Is what they have said so far true?”

The driver stood very straight to answer. “As far as I know, yes, everything is true. I have even read a year ago that Cardinal Mendosa had offended one of the other high-ranking Church officials because he likes to wear cowboy boots and business suits. As you see, he is wearing his boots now.” He appeared completely respectful, but when he gave Willie a quick glance, he winked.

The officer was torn; he did not want to appear curious about this American, and at the same time, he had only once before seen a real pair of cowboy boots up close. He did his best not to stare too obviously. “A foolish dispute,” he announced as he tapped his hand with Willie’s documents. “There is no reason to detain you at present,” he decided aloud. “But I will send a full report of this incident, and if there is any change in your plans, no matter how minor, you must notify this station at once. Is that understood?” He held out the documents to Willie. “We will keep watch for you, Mister Foot, Mister Mendosa, and we will make note of all you do.”

“No doubt,” said Willie as he reclaimed his passport, visa, and press credentials.

“Inform the…Captain,” said Mendosa, “that we are grateful to him for his concern, and his determination to protect the people of his country from misinformation. Integrity is an admirable quality in an officer. I take it as an honor that he would devote any of his valuable time to our inquiries. No doubt he has more pressing duties, but he gives time to us as well.” He waited as Willie relayed this remark, and listened to the reply as if the words made sense to him.

“He says that the People’s Republic has the welfare of all men at heart, and strives to show the world the best way, in the face of the failure of other communist states.” Willie tucked his papers back into his large inner-jacket pocket. “How did you know that would get a positive response?”

“Willie, dear Willie,” said Mendosa with an angelic smile, “I read the papers, and those of us in the upper echelons of the Church are not nearly so insulated as we once were. John-Paul II made me the secretary to his Office of Asian Affairs, and it has long been part of my job to pay attention to what happens here. Premiere Zuo has been doing his best to make internationalism the new line, and I’m merely adopting his rhetoric.” He nodded to the young officer. “How old is he, do you think?”

“Twenty,” said Nigel No, surprising both Mendosa and Willie Foot. “I heard one of his men say it when they brought us in. He has been advanced…promoted just recently and some of the others are jealous.” He bowed to the young officer, then marked toward the door. “There is one thing to be said for this incident,” Nigel observed as Willie and Mendosa followed him out into the sunlight, “and that is that we will run into no fuel shortages now. I have an army authorization as well as my other rations.” He beamed at Mendosa. “You will find your widow yet, Cardinal and—”

“She is not my widow,” Mendosa corrected him testily. “I’m neither married nor dead. And say Charles.” He got back into the car, making another attempt to find a comfortable adjustment of the seatbelt.

“Well, whatever you like,” said Nigel, settling into the driver’s seat. “We could get some rain tonight. I hope we’re settled in by the time it comes. The roof leaks a little.” He started the car and swung back onto the Revolutionary Highway.

A little while later, Mendosa asked, “Do you think there will be any trouble for Zhuang Renxin if she talks to me?”

Nigel thought about his answer. “They’ll want to interview her, of course, and to find out what you said to her, the reason for your visit. Since she has a good reputation, that will stand for something, and she will probably have to do nothing more than appear before a magistrate like herself and the local military authority, to clear up any misgivings.” He shrugged, and at the same time passed an ancient truck wheezing along under an enormous load of bok choy and onions.

“Could it be bad for her?” He folded his hands in his lap as he waited for the answer.

“If she did not have a good reputation, it might be,” Nigel said when he had thought it over. “But that isn’t the case. She isn’t part of any of the radical groups, she hasn’t participated in any of the demonstrations in support of Eastern European independence or democracy, so there is nothing to cause her difficulties.” His eyes glittered. “She is a very proper person, this Zhuang Renxin. She is modest and firm and reliable. How could she be regarded as dangerous?”

“Talking to me might give her that appearance,” said Mendosa uneasily.

“You have already answered to the army, and you have a witness with you. I think she’ll be safe.” Nigel increased his speed. “This is faster than we are supposed to go, but on this stretch, who is there to stop us?”

“No Highway Patrol?” Mendosa asked between amusement and surprise.

“Just the army, and they are the worst drivers of all,” said Nigel, pushing north and west.

* * *

To Clancy McEllton’s annoyance, his request to see his uncle was refused by the warder at the monastery entrance. “But I’ve come from London,” he complained to the aged monk.

The old man smiled sympathetically. “We come from everywhere, those who live within these walls.” He crossed himself and was about to turn away. “God be with you, my son.”

“But I’ve got to speak with him. It’s urgent. It’s important. What can I do to apply for an interview with Uncle Edward?” Clancy demanded, afraid that if the door was shut to him, he would not be able to talk it open again.

“Oh, there are no interviews here. We’re Camaldolese here, cenobites, and most of our Brothers take vows of silence, like the Trappists, as well as of poverty and chastity. And,” he added pointedly, “obedience. Prior Luccio maintains the Rule of Order here, and we each accept his authority.”

Clancy McEllton glowered. “In other words, if I want to talk to my Uncle Edward, I have to go through Prior Luccio, is that it?” He knew it would not help him to become angry, but it was almost too much effort to keep his temper. He was so close, and there was so much money to be had.

“If Prior Luccio permits you to speak with Father McEllton, it is satisfactory. But if Prior Luccio does not give his permission, then I’m afraid—” He lifted his hands to show the limits of his power.

“How do I arrange to talk to this Prior Luccio?” Clancy inquired, unable to keep the urgency out of his voice. “It is important, Brother. If it weren’t, I would not have come here.”

The warder lowered his eyes. “I will inform Prior Luccio that you wish to visit again and speak with your Uncle Edward, and I will see that he has your written request, as well. He will give it his prayerful consideration. If he thinks your request has merit, he will inform Brother Edward McEllton that you have asked to see him, and if both Prior Luccio and Brother Edward McEllton agree to it, you will be given leave to interview your uncle.” He sketched a blessing in Clancy’s direction. “I cannot do more than this.”

“But Prior Luccio—” Clancy began.

“He will read a letter from you. I will be pleased to deliver such a letter myself if you will come tomorrow and give it to me.” The warder had almost closed the gate again.

“Why not now?” Clancy demanded, then softened his tone. “It’s very important, Brother, or I would not persist.”

The old monk thought it over. “If you will bring a letter tomorrow, I will myself hand it to the Prior. Today it would not be possible. The Prior is keeping an altar vigil, and he sees no one until he breaks his fast tomorrow morning.” The gate was open only a few inches now. “Tomorrow morning, Mister McEllton. That would be best.”

“Thank you, Brother,” said Clancy with as much reverence as he could force into his voice. What he wanted to do was shove the gate open, clobber the old fool, get rid of Prior Luccio, and find his uncle. He made himself look up at the imposing white walls of the monastery, and then fold his hands as if in prayer before starting down the long path to the small parking area.

* * *

Only Dominique, Cardinal Hetre was in the library alcove when Sylvestre, Cardinal Jung finally came through the door, his satin cassock whispering around his very correct dark shoes.

“Good evening, Eminence,” said Cardinal Jung with the meticulous politeness he reserved for those he loathed.

“Good evening,” said Cardinal Hetre, thinking he ought to have taken a fourth aspirin before coming to this meeting; he could already feel the pressure in his temples. How much would he have to endure before their discussion was over, he asked himself.

“I appreciate your coming here. To be direct, I am a little surprised that you agreed. I know that neither of us is inclined to assist the other except as it aids the Church,” Cardinal Jung said smoothly as he chose the largest chair in the alcove. He folded his hands in his lap and regarded Cardinal Hetre closely. “You favor Gemme and Cadini, don’t you, instead of those of us who are not as quick as you are to turn away from our traditions.”

“In the past nobles have ridden into our churches on horseback with their scabbards empty as a gesture of piety. Our traditions, as you call them, have caused us to be unable to function well in this modern time. What have our traditions to do with our current predicament, except the tradition that the College of Cardinals elects the Pope?” Cardinal Hetre could not conceal his curiosity, though he hated to admit the wily, pompous Swiss had caught his interest.

“Tradition is the very core of faith,” said Cardinal Jung.

“I thought the Trinity was the core of faith,” said Cardinal Hetre, pleased he had been able to parry Cardinal Jung so deftly while his head was so sore. “God, Son and Holy Spirit.”

“Not all Catholics are theologians, and for them we must have traditions, so that they can be sure of the strength of their Church and all it teaches.” Cardinal Jung looked around the shelves with their precious collection of seventeenth and eighteenth century books. “As any one of these will remind you.”

“Truly?” Cardinal Hetre inquired, deciding to press what he hoped was his advantage. “That is an odd observation, Your Eminence, if you will permit me to remark on it, for most of these books, had they been written three centuries before the time they were, would surely have sent their authors to the stake for heresy. These books are monuments to the end of the rule of zealotry and the beginning of understanding.”

“We won’t agree on that, so let us not be distracted,” said Cardinal Jung. “What troubles me now, and must trouble you as well, is the continuing impotence of the conclave. We have done our part in recessing, but it is time we resumed our deliberations and agreed which of us is to be Pope.”

“Why?” Cardinal Hetre asked bluntly. “Because you are dissatisfied?”

“No,” said Cardinal Jung, but in such a tone that Cardinal Hetre knew he had touched a nerve. “No more than any other sincere Cardinal must be dissatisfied. As you recall, I did not approve of this adjournment when it was decided upon. I have not changed my opinion in any way. Like you, I know that we cannot continue without a Pope, because too many things require his voice and approval. Therefore, for the sake of Catholics all over the world, we must settle this once and for all.”

“Another week will not make so great a difference,” said Cardinal Hetre. “We gave it as your opinion that we would spend three weeks in recess. The second is up tomorrow, and there are only seven days after that. If you were to demand the conclave resume now, it would be four days at least before all the College of Cardinals could assemble again.” He put his hand to his head and felt sweat there.

Cardinal Jung sat very straight in his large chair, his round face rigid with disapproval. “All the more reason to act now,” he said, biting at the words as he spoke them. “We appear to be vacillating, which leads to doubts.”

“Whose doubts?” Cardinal Hetre asked, feeling bolder.