Magnificat (50 page)

“That’s Charles, Cardinal Mendosa,” Nimmo corrected. “First name, then title and last name.”

This threw DuBois off his stride. “What?”

“Charles, Cardinal Mendosa. That’s the right form. If you’re going to talk about him, you ought to get it right. Okay. What about him?” Nimmo signaled Willie with the hand DuBois could not see, warning him to keep silent. “And you’re blocking the entrance to my home.”

“Your brother-in-law arrived at the airport this afternoon. No one has seen him since.” He stabbed a finger in Nimmo’s direction. “You were at the airport.”

“Yep,” said Nimmo, volunteering nothing.

“And you picked up someone at the airport.” The Bronco was a bit too high for DuBois to make his revelation forcefully enough, but he did his best. “You have the British journalist Fitzwilliam Foot with you. He arrived on the plane with Cardinal Mendosa.”

“And?” Nimmo asked unhelpfully. “You going to move your van, DuBois?”

“Where is Cardinal Mendosa?” demanded DuBois. Once he got going, he was very good at creating excitement. “What has become of the Cardinal?”

“You’ll have to ask him when he turns up,” said Nimmo. “He left in a limousine right after we said a couple words.”

“And you brought Mister Foot here with you.” The way he said it, the action was highly suspicious.

“That’s right.” He paused, then went on. “Not that I have any obligation to tell you this, but I want you out of my hair, and I want the rest of you vultures to leave me and my family alone. So get this: Mister Foot isn’t part of the Archdiocese, and so we’re hosting him while the Cardinal tends to business. Mister Foot is not available to the press, and is not at liberty to discuss anything the Cardinal is or is not doing while he’s here. Neither is anyone in my family. Pass that on to the rest of your pals, won’t you?” He revved the engine a bit. “You misquote me or turn this into a story and you’ll answer to Patterson Soames,” he added calmly; Patterson Soames was one of the two finest attorneys in the state of Texas and a force to reckon with. “Now, will you get your van out of my way? Or do I have to ram it?”

Willie glanced toward the portals, so inaccessibly near, and noticed that there were two young men on horseback waiting there, both in bright yellow slickers. He wanted to ask Nimmo about them, but realized that he was expected to remain silent. From years of pursuing stories, Willie knew that once a subject opened his mouth, he could be made to say more.

“No one has seen Cardinal Mendosa since he arrived,” said DuBois, trying to regain his momentum.

“You mean that no one has admitted to seeing him,” Nimmo replied. “You got two minutes to move that van of yours, and then I’m taking it off the road with my bumper. Got that? Mark and counting.” He looked at his watch.

“They’re saying there’ll be more riots,” DuBois declared, prodding for all he was worth.

“Pretty safe bet. Ninety-six seconds.” He revved his engine once more.

The cameraman intervened. “Hey, Henry, we better—”

DuBois looked nervously at his watch. “This isn’t over, Nimmo. We’ll find the Cardinal, and we’ll insist on answers.” The assertion was more for his audience than for Nimmo and both of them knew it.

As DuBois and his cameraman hurried back to the white van, Nimmo said softly, “Better stay right where you are, Chaz. I don’t think they’re going very far.”

“If I stay here much longer I won’t be able to move,” Mendosa said softly. “But your point’s taken, Spook.”

The van moved away with a lurch, and Nimmo’s Bronco picked up some speed. He nodded toward the horsemen. “Tom and his friend Cliff will escort us to the house.”

Willie looked at the horsemen, seeing the resemblance to his father in the nearer of the two. “Do we need an escort?”

“We might have,” said Nimmo, then explained. “They’re carrying shotguns, under the raingear. My orders, of course. If DuBois or any of the others try to come on this property, they’ll get peppered for it.” If he noticed how shocked Willie was, he made no response.

“You mean you’d expect them to shoot?” Willie asked. They were on the graveled drive now, the two horsemen following them a short distance back.

“You’re in Texas, Foot,” said Nimmo with half-concealed amusement. “Why else would they carry shotguns?”

Before Willie could think of anything to say, Mendosa spoke up from the back. “Do you mind if I try to get up now?”

Nimmo laughed outright. “Go ahead. Even if they’re using binoculars, they won’t be able to see you through the spare tire.” He indicated the first of the training grounds on the right. “We put in a small track since you were here last, Chaz. And two arenas, back of the old training rings—one of ‘em enclosed and covered, for bad weather.”

Mendosa had got back onto the seat and was brushing off his slacks. “And for awkward relatives?”

“If you want to ride, you go right ahead. Use the arena, or stay in the outer pastures, where they can’t see you.” The main house was very near and Nimmo slowed down. “You ride, Foot?”

“Not very well, and not Western, in any case.” It had been seven or eight years since he had last been on a horse.

“No trouble there. We got a dozen polo saddles. You can use one of ‘em.” This time he was aware of Willie’s surprise. “That’s our main market, other than cutting horses—polo ponies. We keep a couple strings of ‘em ourselves. My oldest daughter, Laurel, she played in college. Girls play polo in the U.S.” He braked the Bronco in front of an extensive garage. To the left the house, built more along Spanish than the usual ranch lines, was bright with new, white paint.

“They’re good horses,” said Mendosa. “And maybe I’ll spend some time on one.” He slapped at the dust on his sleeve. “What a homecoming.”

* * *

Cardinal Ruhig was the first to arrive, and he paced nervously while he waited for the others. Nine floors below him he watched the traffic snarl. It was difficult for him to concentrate, and that made him angry. He had to think clearly now. The others were expecting it of him; he owed them the keenness of thought that had made him a Cardinal in the first place. He wondered if he ought to have taken the man whose offices these were into his confidence; probably not. He knew better than to permit too many people to share this or any other secret. He fingered the lapel pins, finding them reassuring.

Andros, Cardinal Dellegos arrived a few minutes later. In his business suit he looked like a politician, one of the sleek, aggressive men who were always hovering in the background of major events. He, too, had his lapel pins in place. “I’ve found someone who is eager to join us. He’ll arrive in about half an hour.”

At that Cardinal Ruhig paled. “I don’t think that was a very wise idea,” he heard himself say, and admitted that he felt exposed. Four in a plan was chancy, but five put them all at hazard. “We must keep this to as few associates as possible. There is always a great risk, and it grows greater with every additional man.”

“You aren’t going to mind this,” said Cardinal Dellegos. “You’ll be glad to have him with us.” He looked around the stark, elegant office. “Who is your contact here in Modena?”

“Do you think it wise for me to tell you?” Cardinal Ruhig asked, beginning to pace. “You may want to have certain things left…to your imagination, in case we do not succeed.” The last was difficult to say, and he could not face Cardinal Dellegos. “We have to consider the ramifications of failure.”

“For ourselves or for the Church? In my opinion, the Church is far more at risk than anyone within it, but do the others agree?” Cardinal Dellegos asked. He was clearly out of patience with Cardinal Ruhig. “You’re conversant with the law. You know they can’t touch us, not while we’re at the Vatican. We’re not part of the Italian or European courts. If there were ever a place intended to protect conspirators, it’s the Vatican.”

“And that is about to end,” said Cardinal Ruhig. “You weren’t at the last meeting. It was very sobering. Because of the murder investigation, that Chinese woman has decided that Vatican Security has to become part of Interpol, and that Vatican Security must cooperate fully with the EECPA. In fact, she wants Eurocops stationed at the Vatican, in addition to Vatican Security. Dionigi Stelo is furious, outraged.”

“With good reason,” said Cardinal Dellegos, his olive skin darkening through the cheeks. “Is there anything we—” He broke off as the door to the outer office swung back. Cardinals Sinclair and Belleau came in; each had the look and bearing of a corporate leader. When the basic formalities had been observed, Cardinal Dellegos went on. “What can we do to lend weight to Stelo’s position? We must keep the secular police out of the Vatican, or.…” He had no words to describe the consequences he imagined.

“It’s Cardinal Tayibha,” said Cardinal Sinclair. “If he had not been poisoned and if the Vatican had not brought in assistance, Stelo’s arguments would be stronger. For ordinary security problems, and for the protection of the Pope and the College of Cardinals, the Swiss Guard and Vatican Security are expert. Sadly, however, the Chinese woman is right: they are not able to deal with this sort of criminal investigation. There isn’t much we can do to counter her primary goal, that of finding the murderer or murderers of Cardinal Tayibha. We do not have adequate forces or sufficiently experienced investigators to deal with problems like Cardinal Tayibha’s murder. If the murder is not investigated, or investigated only perfunctorily, it would look very bad.”

Cardinal Ruhig shook his head slowly. “It’s a persuasive notion, but how many murders do we have at the Vatican? Why should we align ourselves with crime laboratories and forensic investigators as a matter of course? Isn’t it possible to establish an occasional link, for those occasions when we need to avail ourselves of the files of Interpol or the laboratories of the Eurocops?”

“You don’t need to try to convince me,” said Cardinal Belleau, indignation making his jaw thrust forward belligerently. “I find the whole matter disgraceful. We are the Church, not another European agency. It isn’t fitting for us to seek to accommodate the political climate of Europe in exchange for better police facilities.”

“Fitting or not, it is something we must be prepared to do, or face the suspicions and accusations of the press all over the world.” Cardinal Sinclair had not bothered to cultivate his whimsical humor for these men. “We are being pilloried already—if we give any appearance whatsoever of concealing the nature of Cardinal Tayibha’s death, then we will lend credibility to the rumor that we have been conspiring to protect the murderer.” He went to the cabinet set between two tall bookcases. “I need a drink. I don’t know about the rest of you.” With that he pulled open the closed shelf and revealed an extensive array of bottles and glasses.

“If there’s port?” said Cardinal Dellegos. “I don’t mind saying that my nerves are stretched to the limit.” He went to the cluster of ultra-modern chairs and selected the one that looked to be least uncomfortable. “I’m not a young man any more. These events are very trying for me.”

“Port it is,” said Cardinal Sinclair, taking out a bottle. “Twenty years old. Not too shabby.” He poured a generous amount for the Croatian and then searched out the Irish whiskey for himself. “Anyone else while I’m here?”

There was a knock on the door and all four Cardinals turned toward it quickly, guiltily.

“That’s our newest ally,” said Cardinal Dellegos, doing his best to make it seem he was not disturbed by this interruption. “He knows to let himself in.”

The other three Cardinals stared at the door, waiting. Cardinal Ruhig coughed nervously and decided he would have a drop of port, too.

The side of his head was still bandaged; there were deep bruises under his eyes and his skin was the color and texture of parchment. Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme had lost more weight and all of his high gloss in the hospital. The bandages prohibited wearing a proper collar, so the top button of his shirt was unfastened and he had wrapped an ascot around his neck. His lapel pins were in place and his ring was on his hand. “Good afternoon,” he said in a voice that sounded like an ancient, scratchy record.

“Cardinal Gemme,” said Cardinal Ruhig, genuinely astonished. “I did not expect to see you.”

Cardinal Gemme met Cardinal Ruhig’s eyes at once. “You mean that you thought I continue to support the Chinese woman?” He could not nod so he rocked back on his heels instead. “Until the moment of death it is possible to repent.”

“Does that mean you now oppose her?” asked Cardinal Sinclair, his whiskey undrunk. “You have been one of her most constant and eloquent supporters.” He recovered himself enough to swallow his drink and pour another. “Was one riot all it needed to change your mind about her?”

“No. I don’t oppose her because I had the misfortune to be injured in a riot. That had been the fate of many Catholics. I have another reason. Because I want to see the Church continue to serve her people. Every year we lose Catholics to other sects, or to no religion at all, and in large part it is because the Church has failed to keep pace with the world.” He had to stop and draw breath, which effort left him with bright spots in his cheeks. “I thought that this woman was the key. She was not bound to the past. But see what chaos she has done. While I’ve been in the hospital, I have been thinking about the Church, and about this Magistrate Zhuang. I saw how I let myself believe she was the answer.” Again he broke off panting. “I have been made to pay for my error.”

“But to turn so far—” began Cardinal Ruhig.

“If there is gangrene, it must be cut out.” Cardinal Gemme found his way to the cluster of chairs. “She is gangrene on the hands of the Church. She purports to offer the promise of Christ to the world, and her very acts profane His work. Ignorant people praise what she does, and pay no heed to the damage she has inflicted on us.” His breath was ragged but he pressed on. “The hands, and their gifts, are contaminated. We must amputate them before more damage is done.” He touched the bandages on the side of his face as if to reassure himself there was still flesh beneath them. “So I am at your service, Eminences. And do not tell me I cannot address you as Eminences.”