Magnificat (38 page)

“Perhaps,” said Stelo carefully.

Cardinal Aquilino nodded. “In other words you’re saying that none of us is above suspicion. I see your point.”

“Thank you, Eminence,” said Stelo.

Cardinal Ygnacio did not take this so well. “How can you make such an assumption, that one of us would participate in any in so appalling an act?”

“We can make no such assumption, of course, not as our only premise,” said Stelo with the deference born of long association with the Vatican. “However we cannot dismiss it as a possibility.”

“In other words,” said Moise, Cardinal Tornillo of La Paz, “you are not convinced one of us was not involved.” He was the other cassocked Cardinal in the room.

“We must consider all possibilities, Eminence,” said Stelo.

Cardinal Fiorivi indicated Commander Bouleau. “We’re coordinating with Interpol right now. They identified the poison and are trying to discover where it came from. Their help has been invaluable. Later today I’m going to brief the EECPA about this case. Interpol has already begun adding to our security forces, in addition to Stelo’s extra men.”

“The Swiss Guard is being given new instructions,” said Stelo. “Not only our public forces, but—”

Cardinal Fiorivi held up his hand. “It might be best if you don’t tell us too much. If we know everything, it might interfere with what you have to do.” He looked at the nine Cardinals. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Is it significant that most of us are not as well-known to the public as some of our more august brethren? Most of us don’t make the international news on our own, do we?” asked Cardinal Ruhig; his sarcasm went unchided. “Do you want us to stay out of sight? Is that why you asked us to serve on this committee?”

It took a second for Cardinal Fiorivi to answer. “It isn’t entirely an accident that you’re not recognizable to the public, no. You are also selected because most of you have some background in law, as I have. Four of you have practiced law, the other five have taken degrees in it, two in international law. Given what we have learned thus far, we must be prepared for legal actions to result in this case.”

“I notice a certain spread of territory,” observed Cardinal Pugno. “You and I are Italians; the rest—a German, an Austrian, a Romanian, an American, a Filipino, a Bolivian, a Slav, and an Australian—cover a wide territory.”

“Distributing the load over the widest surface,” said Cardinal Stevenson without a hint of joking; only Dionigi Stelo smiled.

“There is some truth in that, too,” said Cardinal Fiorivi. “You nine are supposed to balance one another. I was instructed by Her Holiness to avoid regionalism.” He looked at the seat in front of him. “We must be very discreet, for the sake of the Church as much as the law.”

“More to the point,” said Cardinal Ruhig, “we must solve this crime.”

“Yes,” said Cardinal Fiorivi as if a weight had landed on his shoulders with great suddenness. “We must.”

* * *

It was almost four in the afternoon and Rome was still achingly hot. Martin Bell leaned against the side of the building at the entrance to the little piazza and waited for Cardinal Mendosa, who was ten minutes late. He carried a leather folder under his arm, and he spent the time watching the women who frequented the expensive shops just across the road.

A cab pulled up near the fountain—one of the new taxis that ran half on petrol and half on electric power—and the Texan stepped out of it, his summer-weight suit looking a little rumpled. He paid off the driver and glanced around, frowning against the glare.

Martin Bell raised his free arm as the cab bolted.

When he caught sight of Bell, Cardinal Mendosa gave a single nod before waiting for a break in the traffic to cross the narrow street. Shading his eyes, he watched the cars hurtling past, and took advantage of the first break.

“Done like a Roman,” said Bell as Cardinal Mendosa came up to him.

“Good God, I hope not,” said Cardinal Mendosa. He was looking tired and he knew it. He regarded Bell with a combination of resignation and curiosity. “Why do you want to talk to me? Or are you relaying messages?”

“A little of both, actually,” said Bell, indicating the little open-air bakery and coffee shop a short distance up the road. “Let me buy you a snack.”

Cardinal Mendosa shrugged. “If you like.”

“It makes it easier,” said Bell, determined to be friendly. “Why make this more of a chore than necessary?”

For several steps Cardinal Mendosa said nothing, then he relented enough to address a question to Bell. “Why do you suppose he did it?”

Bell looked startled. “Why who did what?”

“Why Karodin pulled the strings to get Her Holiness out of China?” He cocked his head, chin toward Bell.

Martin Bell thought about it. “I don’t know,” he admitted as they came out of the bakery. A dozen small tables, each with two or three wire-backed chairs drawn up around them, clustered around the bakery door as if captivated by the marvelous aromas. “I’ve wondered about that myself. Are you sure he really was the one who pulled it off?”

“Really sure, no,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “I wasn’t there, and Magistrate Zhuang has no information as to how she got her visa. Still, it seems from what he’s said that he was the one who arranged for her to leave. I am grateful, I suppose, that he did it. I don’t like the conditions he imposed on me, but I have no reason to assume he was not telling the truth. There’s no sensible reason to lie about what he did for Zhuang. That isn’t what bothers me. What little contact I have had with Karodin isn’t enough to let me guess about his motive.”

“But you’re satisfied he’s the one behind it?” asked Bell, intrigued. He selected a table, dropped his leather folder on it, and pulled out both chairs with a flourish. “Your Eminence?”

“No title,” Cardinal Mendosa warned him sharply. “I don’t want to be the object of interest.” He sat down, his rangy frame making the chair seem like furniture for a child.

Bell realized his error at once. “No, of course not.” He reversed his chair and straddled the seat, his arms folded along the back. “You’re probably tired of dealing with the press.”

“I’m tired of much more than that, especially subterfuge,” said Cardinal Mendosa shortly, then made a slap at the air with his hand. “But that doesn’t excuse me being surly with you. Beg pardon.”

“No need to ask,” said Bell, looking up as a slender young man in waiter’s black-and-white approached. “Espresso doppio for me. And you?”

“Caffe latte,” said Cardinal Mendosa. He stared out at the traffic as the waiter retreated. “I gave him my word. Karodin, I mean. I said he would have regular reports from me. He made it a condition of Zhuang’s release. And I’ll keep my word. But it troubles me, just as his motives trouble me.”

“Then why accommodate him? You’ve got what you want. Why send the reports now that she’s here?” asked Bell, not expecting an answer. He noticed a tall, buxom woman with glossy dark hair emerging from the shop next door; his eyes lingered on her as she made her way toward the bakery.

Cardinal Mendosa was startled. “I said I gave him my word. I can’t go back on that. I’m discredited enough as it is. I won’t add to it; I won’t take the chance of exposing the Pope to any scandal.” He reached into his jacket and drew out a plain envelope. “Here. You know how to get this to the right person.”

Bell took the envelope, amazed that Cardinal Mendosa would hand it over so readily and openly. “Yes. I’ll attend to it discreetly.”

“Thank you,” said Cardinal Mendosa flatly. Once again his attention was taken by the traffic. “I suggest that neither of us discuss these dealings in front of Cardinal Cadini. He has been too good a friend to me, and too devoted to Zhuang for me to want to compromise him by embroiling him in this…this intrigue.”

“If that’s what you want,” said Bell, wanting to offer some reassurance to the Cardinal, but could not think of what to say. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I appreciate it,” said Cardinal Mendosa. Then he straightened in his chair. “I'm relying on your discretion, Bell.” He coughed once. “In addition to your other help, I want you to get Karodin’s assurance that he and his agency had nothing to do with the death of Cardinal Tayibha.”

“But why?” asked Bell, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the attractive woman had taken another one of the outdoor tables. “You don’t think he had anything to do with it, do you?”

“I don’t know.” Cardinal Mendosa stifled a sigh. “Someone killed him. The autopsy revealed a rare poison, one of the sorts that has to be specially manufactured. The poison had to come from somewhere.”

“And you suspect the KGB?” Bell inquired, who shared the suspicion.

“It’s a possibility, but not the only one, not by a long shot,” said Cardinal Mendosa. He fidgeted in his chair. “That’s what’s been making it so difficult for me. It’s possible that I created a link that brought about Cardinal Tayibha’s death. I pray I haven’t, but if I have in any way contributed to the murder of a fellow-Cardinal, how am I to—” He broke off. “I shouldn’t be saying this to you.”

“I won’t repeat it,” said Martin Bell, hoping he would be able to keep his promise. “I have no reason to repeat it.”

“Of course you do,” said Cardinal Mendosa without anger. “You could sell an article about these suppositions to any number of publications, from academic to supermarket sleaze. You could sell a book about the election of this Pope, and include this as a sidebar.”

Since Bell had already started making notes about the impact of this Papal election, he had no glib denial for Cardinal Mendosa. He watched the woman for most of a minute. “I probably will do a book,” he said at last, oddly relieved to admit his plan, “But I won’t include any of this in it. Well, think; I can’t, can I? There would be questions for me to answer if I say anything to expose you.”

“There could be a problem or two for you, I’d imagine,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “You could damage yourself seriously. So you ought to be able to understand why I’m apprehensive.”

“Of course,” said Bell, noticing the waiter returning.

Cardinal Mendosa saw the man as well, and fell silent, his charcoal-brown eyes again fixed on the traffic in the road. He muttered his thanks when a caffe latte was placed in front of him, but he neither looked at the young man nor invited any comment from him.

Martin Bell paid for their coffee and added a reasonable tip. He look a little curl of lemon peel and gave it a twist before dropping it into the espresso.

“In the States you teach where?” asked Cardinal Mendosa as he took the long spoon to stir his caffe latte.

“Stanford,” said Bell, puzzled at the turn in the conversation.

“Stanford,” Cardinal Mendosa repeated. “Yeah, you wouldn’t want your KGB connection to get around there, even in these friendly days. Stanford is pretty conservative turf.” He set his spoon aside. “I’ve been out there a couple of times, to conferences and to debate Vince Walgren about handling drug gangs. It’s a handsome place. You can see it has money.”

“Yes, it does,” said Bell, and asked, “What are you trying to find out?”

“Nothing spectacular,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “I was just curious how much you have at risk, running errands for the KGB.”

“And how much of a risk do you think it is?” Bell asked, stung.

Cardinal Mendosa smiled only with his mouth. “More than I guessed.”

* * *

Rufus Greene and Clancy McEllton sat in the limousine facing forward. Cardinal Hetre, in a cassock, rode with his back to the driver and the connecting window closed. Traffic in Rome was more congested than usual, which slowed their progress to little more than a jogging pace.

“There are Eurocops all over the place,” said Clancy, indicating the mess along the Via dei Quattro Fontane. Ahead the front of San Cartino was covered with scaffolding, and beside it three white-and-blue cars waited. “They’re spot-checking. Eurocops!”

“Not surprising, with the Ministry of Defense and the Ministry of Finance so near.” Cardinal Hetre dismissed the presence of the police emphatically.

“That’s not the reason, Eminence. They’re here because of the murder of Cardinal Tayibha,” said Greene. “They’re being cautious. You know, it’s interesting, how little information the Vatican and the police have released about his death. I don’t suppose they’ve learned who did it, or why?”

“No, nothing yet,” said Cardinal Hetre, his face set with disapproval and a trace of envy. “Or if something is known, Stelo is keeping it secret, along with the rest of that security committee of his.”

“The Vatican is very good at keeping secrets,” said Clancy with a touch of pride. “They’ve had hundreds and hundreds of years to practice.”

Cardinal Hetre shook his head. “We should have said nothing at all. We should have gone ahead and arranged for his funeral, and said nothing. The autopsy was a mistake, and making it public about the poison was a serious error in judgment. It’s made everyone suspicious and brought too much attention on us. If we didn’t have this travesty of a Pope! That Chinese woman required that we inform the police and the public. She said it was not in keeping with what Jesus taught to withhold such information.” His eyes smoldered. “Everyone is afraid to say the tea was for the Chinese woman. They want to pretend the poison wasn’t for her. Why should it be for Cardinal Tayibha? He hadn’t been a Cardinal long enough to make many enemies, but he came from India, and that is offensive to some of us. That is what they are implying in their briefings, that someone disapproved of him because he was Indian.”

“Are you taking credit for the attempt on the woman’s life?” asked Clancy with a touch of mischief.

“Not I,” said Cardinal Hetre. “How could I? The government in Montreal doesn’t deal with poisons like that, and I could scarcely have got it in Winnipeg.” His head was only a little sore now, more a residual ache than real pain. “And in any case, I would not attempt so cowardly an act; poison is the weapon of the craven.”

“But you are talking with us, with the intention of ending her rule,” said Greene. “How is this different.”

“I don’t want to kill her, not if it isn’t necessary. I want to see her discredited, as she should have been from the first, removed from office, and those who have insisted we elevate her made to pay for their blunder along with her. But killing her, no, that is too much. The scandal would be terrible. Killing her makes her a martyr. There must be a better way to be rid of her.” He folded his hands in his lap. “Remember how rife the rumors were when John-Paul I died, and there were so many questions asked about him? It was very damaging, very divisive to the Church. And his death was an unfortunate mishap. This is much worse; it is quickly becoming a disaster.”