Magnificat (13 page)

Ordinarily such a declaration would have swung the discussion in his favor, but Reverend Williamson was ready for him, and pounced. “You’re making some pretty big assumptions there, Your Eminence. You’re assuming that you, no matter how far you have risen in the Church, can know the wishes of God. That’s pride, Cardinal Gemme, plain and simple, thinking that you can know God. God is infinite, omnipotent, omniscient. What man is capable of knowing that, or aspiring to know it? In my church we preach personal experience of God, the rebirth in Christ promised in Scripture.”

Cardinal Gemme nodded. “Any man who is ordained knows that experience of God. That is the test, the way of determining that you are called of God. Those who enter Orders shape their entire lives to answering that call. There are others who depend on those who serve God to bring Him to them, so that they can reach Him. To see God in the face is the promise of Christianity.”

Reverend Williamson flashed his famous, pious smile. “Yes. Yes, it
is
what we are promised. And it is coming.
He
is coming.”

Before he could get launched on his theme, Gordon Mennell interrupted smoothly. “That comes to the heart of this discussion, gentlemen. With the millennium drawing to the close, what is the impact going to be on Christianity?”

“Impact?” Reverend Williamson thundered. “The return of Jesus will transform the world, and bring the Kingdom of God to men a last. The long reign of Satan and his worldly servants will be at an end, and those sinners who have revered him on earth will serve him in Hell for eternity. Those who have been redeemed will find the gates of Paradise open to them, and God will welcome them into His Kingdom. It will be the Last Judgment and all men will answer to God. How can you speak of impact, as if the Second Coming were nothing more than an automobile accident or a budget crisis? How can any Christian regard the end of the world only as ‘impact’?” He was sitting bolt upright in his chair; if it were not for the table he would have risen to his feet. “This is the culmination of our faith, the vindication of it!”

Cardinal Gemme leaned back deliberately. “And if it doesn’t happen, what then?”

Gordon Mennell stared at the French Cardinal, for the first time unable to think of the right thing to say.

“It must happen!” Reverend Williamson insisted. “It is promised in Scripture!”

Now Cardinal Gemme gave a wintery smile. “That is what they said at the end of the first millennium,” he pointed out. “Read the documents remaining from that time, and you will see that half the Christians of the world were prepared for the Wedding Supper of the Lamb. But one thousand A.D. came and went and it never happened. Why is the end of the second millennium any different than the first? Why must it be now that Christ returns? Because we need Him? We always need Him, every day of every year from His birth to the end of the world. But that’s the rub: Christ said He would return. But He did not specify a time.”

“It is foretold,” said Reverend Williamson sternly.

“Yes, it is,” Cardinal Gemme agreed with a pleasant suggestion of a smile. He watched Reverend Williamson as he regained his composure, then looked toward Gordon Mennell for another question.

Chapter 8

“They should reach Hongya by afternoon, probably after three,” the man reported to Dmitri Karodin. “They’ve had to detour around some road construction, and it is raining. If the weather had stayed clear, they would have been there by now.”

“I see,” said Karodin, pulling thoughtfully at his lower lip. He had sent two of his secretaries out of the office and disconnected his recorder, for he wanted nothing official to remain of this conversation. It was quite early in Moscow and the sun was valiantly striving to penetrate the dense high clouds which gathered over the city. “Has anyone attempted to contact them? Anyone at all?”

“Not that we have noticed. There is no mention of such attempts in any of the reports we have received.” He cleared his throat. “We have not had time to question those they have spoken with yet, but—”

“I am certain the People’s Republic would know if there had been such an attempt,” Karodin said, cutting him off. “What about the Chinese press? Mendosa is traveling with a reporter. Isn’t the press curious?”

“There has been no announcement,” said the man carefully. “And because this is not official, no one is being permitted to speak with Foot.” He hesitated. “If someone comes, I will have to hang up at once.”

“I understand,” said Karodin, who heard such warnings every time this man contacted him.

“It is dangerous, talking to you this way.”

Karodin did not want to spend precious seconds reassuring this frightened man. He took a sterner tone. “Have they made any stops?”

“Other than the necessary ones? No.” His contact was growing more tired and nervous. “The American has spoken to no one but those with him, and the English is always his translator. They say Foot speaks Chinese quite well, at least two dialects, possibly three. I should not be telling you so much.”

“Certainly you should; it is what you are employed to do,” said Karodin, a little bored at the man’s nervous greed which increased with every phone call. “You have the scrambler on, haven’t you?”

“They monitor for scrambled signals,” said the man. “Especially those of us in—”

“If you were not on Premier Zuo’s staff you wouldn’t be much use to me,” Karodin reminded him sharply. “And you would not have the extra money you like to squander on sporting events. Dish antennae have enlarged all our horizons. Refresh my memory, will you? How much did you lose on last year’s Super Bowl International?”

There was silence on the line, then the man cleared his throat. “I must have more for this. The risk I am taking—”

“You are in more danger from international bookies than you are from Premier Zuo, or the police, my friend,” said Karodin gently. “But I will increase the payment by ten percent this time—mark me:
this
time—because of the urgency of the request.” He coughed delicately. “Do you have anything else to tell me? Otherwise I suggest we terminate this call to minimize your risk.”

“So far as I know,” said the man quickly, “no one has informed Magistrate Zhuang of her coming guests. The Premier has said that he does not wish to influence her decision. He also does not want to recognize the Church.”

“Which also means he does not intend to complicate the situation. Very wise. I have great admiration for your Zuo Nangkao. He is handling this with great skill. Perhaps he will never have to admit it happened.” Karodin’s smile was open and charming, though no one saw it.

“But he is handling nothing,” the man protested, his voice rising.

“Yes,” said Karodin. “Precisely.”

* * *

Vitale, Cardinal Cadini sat in the hospital solarium, a blanket across his legs, his reading glasses perched on his nose. He was frowning over a murder mystery when the door opened and Piet, Cardinal van Hooven stepped into the sunroom.

“Do I intrude?” asked the Dutch Cardinal. He was in a dark suit with a Roman collar, having the appearance of a parish priest visiting Italy.

“Of course not, my friend.” Cardinal Cadini folded down the corner of the page, glancing at the bibliophile Cardinal van Hooven. “It’s a paperback, Piet.”

“It’s a book, Vitale,” said Cardinal van Hooven patiently. “How are you feeling?”

“Well enough to have figured out who the murderer is on page seventy-eight. I must be getting better.” His eyes smiled more than his mouth. “When they were giving me Extreme Unction, I found I could be frightened. I suppose I’ll have to confess the fear. I never thought I could be afraid of something so normal as dying.” He shifted in his chair. “Well, what is it? If you wanted to know about my health, you would have telephoned, as the others have. A few, I suspect, are sorry to hear I’m improving.”

“Oh, I would visit you in any case,” said Cardinal van Hooven mildly. “But you are right. I do have something to discuss with you.”

“And that is?” The keenness was coming back into his eyes now, a look that many had learned to respect over the years. “Come on. Out with it. Something is bothering you.”

It took Cardinal van Hooven a little time to answer. “I suppose I shouldn’t bother you with this yet. Your physician would not approve. But you have said you do not want to be left out, so I will ignore my better judgment: some of our fellow-Princes are getting restive again.”

“Let me guess—Cardinal Jung and his cronies.” Cardinal Cadini laughed, but the sound quickly turned to a hacking cough, then stopped altogether. He put one hand to his chest as if helping his lungs to work. “Pardon me. I haven’t recovered quite enough for laughing.”

“Do you need anything? Shall I summon the nurse?” Cardinal van Hooven asked, his concerned expression magnified by his thick glasses.

“No, of course not.” He took a deep breath and let it out very slowly. “There. Better.”

Beyond the glass the Roman sky appeared brilliant blue. “You can’t see the smog from here,” Cardinal van Hooven observed. “And yes, you are right about Sylvestre Jung. He is determined to prevent this woman from coming to Rome for any reason whatsoever. You know how fixed he becomes once he has taken a notion into his head. He has sent the United Nations Nuncio to explain the problems to the Secretary General.”

“Oh, God and the angels!” Cardinal Cadini swore without apology. “He’s going to scuttle the project. And by what authority does Jung send the Nuncio anywhere? The Nuncio serves the Pope, and we don’t have one just now. If the plan succeeds, then we might…but now? What can Gunnar Hvolsvollur do for us at this stage? The man’s an Icelandic Lutheran, and the United Nations can’t rule in.… We may need them later, but not now.”

“As we have agreed,” said Cardinal van Hooven. “But Cardinal Jung has changed his mind.”

“If he were not another Cardinal, I would be tempted to ask ‘What mind?’ but, under the circumstances, I won’t. He is my dear brother in Christ no matter how much of a pig-headed fool he is. How did he ever end up.… No, don’t tell me. I remember. John-Paul II felt he would help stabilize things in Switzerland with the Protestants, and he had so many years of service. He was a known quantity. Yes, yes, yes. And he advanced during the reign of Paul VI; we both saw him do it.” He stared out the window as he gathered his thoughts. “No, you don’t see the smog from here.”

“He wants to end the recess and have our election by the end of the week. He is pressing for it with great determination. He has said we can agree in advance, now that we understand how unacceptable the alternative is.” He said it directly, watching Cardinal Cadini as he spoke.

“
Gia
,” said Cardinal Cadini, that single Italian word expressing everything from
this is crazy
to
right
to
what else is new
?

“And now that she may be found, this Chinese woman, there are many of the College of Cardinals who are wavering.” Cardinal van Hooven looked down at his hands. “Some of us remain firm, but not all.”

“I see,” said Cardinal Cadini. “How many are wavering, do you know?”

“A dozen, perhaps more. Cardinal Pingari is one of them, and Cardinal Fiorivi is another. Cardinal Lepescu has refused to commit himself” He paused. “And the news is threatening the whole recess as a media event. Some of the speculations in the news is very damaging, such as the suggestion that the election is the result of diabolical intervention, or that the College is demanding bribes to influence the various candidates, as if we were a Parliament. I think these accusations and innuendos, as much as other doubts, have taken a toll on us all.”

“Do you mean me? Do you think I succumbed to the pressure?” Cardinal Cadini asked, not needing an answer. “No, this was not stress, not that kind.” Something shifted in his eyes and his features softened. “It wasn’t that at all, Piet. It was a warning. God is…losing patience with us. We are failing Him. He has made His will known and we don’t like it, and like children we try to foist a counterfeit off on Him. My seizure was a rebuke for all of us; I know this as surely as I know liturgy. That Chinese peasant woman is the one God has chosen, and the one God will have, College of Cardinals be damned, and I mean that literally. The only reason I didn’t die was that I recognized the warning for what it was.” His face changed as he glanced at Cardinal van Hooven. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I believe that you believe what you’re telling me,” said the Dutch Cardinal, who was also a psychiatrist.

“Very clever,” Cardinal Cadini approved, then grew solemn once again. “But that is what it was. We can elect another Cardinal Pope and that man will be a dead man. Cardinal Jung can say what he likes, but that changes nothing. If we do not elevate this woman, we defy the Holy Spirit.”

“You’ll never convince Cardinal Jung of that,” Cardinal van Hooven remarked.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Cardinal Cadini asked. “Madre d’Iddio, I wish Charles would find her for us.” He faltered, but not because of his health. “Has he? Do you know?”

“There has been no word from him,” said Cardinal van Hooven cautiously.

“But?” Cardinal Cadini prodded.

Cardinal van Hooven gestured to show he was not responsible. “There has been a message from China, to Metropolitan Gosteshenko, who was gracious enough to phone me about it.” He got up and walked away from Cardinal Cadini, so that he could look down on the hospital gardens. “Our Texan friend is nearly there, Vitale. He slept in Chongqing last night—or tonight, because of the change of dates.”

“When is he expected to arrive in Hongya?” asked Cardinal Cadini.

“Tonight. Late this afternoon. Tomorrow afternoon.” The time confusion gave Cardinal van Hooven an excuse to laugh. “When you wake up in the morning he will have met her.”

“Assuming he is permitted to speak to her at all,” said Cardinal Cadini softly. “That is what has been troubling me since I came out from under the anesthetic: that Cardinal Mendosa would not be allowed to speak to this woman. It is possible for him to go all that way and still not be able to find her. How can we do what we must do if he is not able to reach her?” His hands locked; it was the only sign of his agitation.

“He’s got to Chongqing,” Cardinal van Hooven said. “If he’s that close, he’ll find a way. He’s always joking how you have to be stubborn to live in Texas. He will find a way.” This last was a promise.

“That’s what I pray for,” said Cardinal Cadini, adding whimsically, “And I really do pray for it, not the way I say all the other rote prayers. They’re so familiar that I can’t do them any other way. I suppose Cardinal Tayibha would say that they are mantras now, and he might well be right.” He achieved a half-smile. “But when I pray I may see that Chinese peasant woman, I pray like a devout eighteen-year-old, full of passion and fervor and lack of experience.”

Cardinal van Hooven looked from the garden back to Cardinal Cadini. “God will hear you. But sometimes God says no.”

Cardinal Cadini opened his hands, palms up, to show his resignation to that. “But you know, Piet, I would like the opportunity to meet someone who is truly chosen of God. All the times we have met in conclave, all the discussions and bargaining we’ve done, I’ve always had a secret worry that we had lost track of God’s will in all the power and pomp. I have felt doubts, so many doubts.”

“All men with any sense doubt,” Cardinal van Hooven reminded him, as he had reminded so many others.

“But you see, it would be different with this woman. There would be no doubt.” His smile lasted longer this time, and came from a deeper place within him. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Piet, to truly have no doubts at all?”

* * *

At one end of the main street in Hongya workers in raingear were filling in potholes, slowing the light traffic to a lurching crawl. It was nearing four in the afternoon, and the small city was changing rhythm; the four o’clock shift was about to begin and people were hastening to their work even as others were going home.

“Do we know where we are going?” Mendosa asked testily as Nigel No inched their car past the female road repair crew.

“I know where to ask for her address,” said Nigel with unruffled good humor. He was enjoying himself hugely. “You are tired of sitting with your legs tucked up that way.”

“Yes,” said Mendosa, which was true, but only a partial reason for his brusqueness. “And forgive me for speaking to you that way.”

“It’s nothing,” said Nigel No, and cocked his head toward the back seat of the car where Willie Foot dozed. “You should do as he does and get some sleep. You look very tired, Charles.”

“I didn’t sleep too well last night,” Mendosa explained, making no mention of the visions that had filled his attempted rest.

“Strange beds; I’ve said it before. It is always difficult to sleep in strange beds.” The street was poorly maintained, so that it was not possible to increase speed very much once the road crew was behind them. Nigel No guided the car through the ruts and the rusted rails of an old streetcar track. “Up ahead? That is the…you would say city hall. I will learn the Magistrate Zhuang’s address from them, and get instructions to find the place.” He pulled to the side of the road and turned off the engine. “It might be best if you remain here. It will be quicker, in any case.”