Magnificat (49 page)

“It will be a pleasure, sir,” said the waiter, then caught a glimpse of the screen and added, “Be glad you aren’t caught in that, sir.”

“Oh, I am, I am,” said Mister Greene, smiling as he watched rocks smash through the windows of Saint Sulpice.

“At this hour,” the newsman was saying, “EECPA forces have cordoned off Notre Dame and Sacré Coeur, among other historic churches in the city. We have been asked to make general announcements. We request everyone in our audience living in the Paris area to listen carefully. All vehicles entering the city are subject to search. All items within the vehicle are subject to seizure. The Metro remains closed. We have been asked to repeat to everyone—please do not leave your homes. Stay indoors. If there is any sign of violence, notify the authorities at once. Anyone found on the street within two kilometers of Notre Dame will be subject to detainment and search.”

Rufus Greene beamed. It was even better than he had hoped, this terrible riot. All because that stupid Asian woman could not leave well enough alone. It was too easy, he thought. With all the plans he had made, anticipating difficulty, she had made it possible for him to proceed without a hitch. She was playing directly into his hands; there was almost no sport in the game now. It would not take much more to damage the Catholic Church beyond recovery. He chuckled as he got up from the sofa facing the television. He ambled over to the small dining table and sat down to a very satisfactory meal, all the while reviewing his latest plans. From time to time he looked up, watching as a mob of more than forty thousand people—according to the Eurocops—strove to dismantle Saint Sulpice.

He was sipping coffee and making a few notes on the pad at his elbow when the front desk rang his room. “There is a gentleman from Montreal to see you, sir,” the clerk informed him, clearly uncertain because he could offer no name.

“I am expecting a gentleman from Montreal,” said Greene calmly. “If this is a tall, lean gentleman in his late fifties, wearing a dark suit and tie, he is the man I am expecting. Please ask him to come up and clear him for security on this floor.”

“Of course, Mister Greene.” The desk clerk sniffed before hanging up.

Greene sat back and looked toward the window. If he squinted he could just make out the Palace at Versailles. This hotel, so very new, had been designed along splendid lines, with mirrors and grand chandeliers, as if to share the brilliance of Louis XIV’s remodeled hunting lodge. A single knock on the door claimed his attention. He went to admit his guest.

Dominique, Cardinal Hetre was pale, his eyes sunken. He offered Greene his hand listlessly, and made only the sketchiest of greetings. “It was a difficult trip. They took us off the train at Choisy-le-Roi.”

“It’s the riot,” said Greene, waving toward the television screen. “It’s calming down now.”

Cardinal Hetre took one quick glance at the screen, then turned away, his pale features more ashen than before. “May she sink to perdition,” he muttered, then cleared his throat. “Cardinal Gemme?”

“Still alive, if that’s what you were wondering. I talked to someone about him an hour ago, and there’s been no further announcements. He’s recovering in hospital. I don’t know his current condition. If you like, I’ll call again within the hour.” He regarded Cardinal Hetre once more. “Can I get anything for you? You don’t look well.”

“A headache,” Cardinal Hetre said, trying to dismiss it. He did not want Greene to think he was always suffering; it might shake his faith in him.

“Would you like to have a little cognac? Or an aspirin?” His expression was neutrally polite, but it infuriated Cardinal Hetre to have this response.

“Cognac,” the Cardinal snarled. He made a point of not looking at the television; his back was very straight as he selected the chair farthest from the screen. As he sat down, he added, “If you will tell me where the cognac is?”

“In a moment, Eminence,” said Greene as he opened the private bar. “I have Remy Martin or Hennessy. Which would you prefer?”

Cardinal Hetre sighed. “Either. Either will do.” He reached into his pocket and took out a vial of tablets and poured three into his palm.

Greene brought a snifter with a generous portion of Hennessy. “Here, Your Eminence.” He gave the snifter to Cardinal Hetre, then stepped back. “I’m a little surprised that you agreed to this meeting, Eminence.”

“I’ve come to realize.…” He paused, taking his tablets and washing them down with a first swig of cognac. “I’ve come to realize that you were right. It isn’t sufficient to remove her from the Papacy. While I cannot approve of killing her, I have reached a level of acceptance: her death is necessary. I find it abhorrent, but it is imperative. It is reprehensible, knowing this must happen. Yet it must.” His headache was no longer as severe as when he had got off the train.

Rufus Greene had the good sense to say nothing. He turned the sound down on the television and moved a chair closer to the Cardinal’s chair.

“I’ve prayed for guidance.” He drank more cognac, feeling it burn its way down his throat. “There is always a sacrifice demanded. It is God’s way, and as his servants, we must do as He demands. Unfortunately she must die.” His face darkened, and he set the snifter aside, almost empty.

“Such decisions are not easily made,” said Mister Greene, his manner soothing and remote. “There are compelling—”

“Reasons? This is a mystery, Mister Greene, not an equation. But you need not remind me of the precedents for this decision. I know them all; I do not have to recite them to you to demonstrate my dedication,” said Cardinal Hetre, and finished the cognac.

Again Greene waited, permitting Cardinal Hetre a little time to steady himself. Then he said, “I respect your privacy, Eminence.” He was inwardly amused that Cardinal Hetre did not protest the use of his banned title. “No doubt you have arrived at your decision after long and painful analysis.” He could see that he had chosen his words badly. “I wish I could express my admiration for your courage more succinctly.”

“I have said,” Cardinal Hetre reminded him with ungracious sharpness, “that my decision is not one from analysis but from faith. Faith is not subject to analysis, not as you mean the word. I have searched my soul.” He could not speak of the things that had roiled in his brain while he prayed for guidance, of the men he had seen, naked, flogged, bleeding, who lay prostrate before him, begging him to chastise them for failing to rid the Church of the vile presence of the Chinese woman; of the adulation and supplication they had offered him for his courage for doing what they could not do. How those men had possessed his dreams, his prayers. He passed his hand over his eyes. “God has led me, and, dutifully, I have followed Him.”

“Certainly,” said Greene. “I didn’t mean to imply anything else. But you see, for Protestants, our mandates are different. As you have sought for God’s guidance, so I and those I work for have tried to fathom God’s Will. That is the reason we approached you in the first place—we realized that our religion could not encompass the entirety of the problem.” He saw how Cardinal Hetre gloated at that, and decided to press on. “Without the advice and aid of someone in your position, we could not act. We are lost without you.”

This was all welcome to Cardinal Hetre, who nodded several times in grave acceptance of Greene’s flattery. “Those who are Protestants cannot understand, I fear, how much the Holy Spirit means to Catholics. To see It so profaned that an imposter, a usurper, is given the appearance of the authority of the Holy Spirit—” He could not go on.

Greene thought that Reverend Williamson could use that phrase—a usurper profaning the Holy Spirit—and made a note to tell him when they spoke that night. “We’re trying to remedy that, Eminence; and thanks to your efforts, we will,” he said mellifluously.

“I pray it is so,” said Cardinal Hetre without an iota of humility.

“So do we all,” said Greene, getting up from his chair. He was confident now that he could direct their discussion without having Cardinal Hetre turn skittish. “I’m expecting Clancy McEllton to join us, if you have no objections?”

“An able man, Mister McEllton,” said Cardinal Hetre ponderously. “He must realize how important our work is, to help so selflessly.”

Greene was tempted to tell Cardinal Hetre exactly how much Clancy McEllton had been paid for his work, and what he would be paid to finish, but he stopped himself in time: he knew Cardinal Hetre would despise anyone who undertook to assassinate the Pope for nothing more than money. Instead he murmured vague assent and went to ring Clancy’s room, to tell him they were ready for him at last.

Chapter 26

Houston was wan under weepy skies; the squall that had rolled through the Gulf of Mexico had blown itself out and now all that was left of it was rain and clouds like marble. Cardinal Mendosa watched as the limousine pulled away from the jet; he looked over at his companion. “I tell you, Willie, I’m beginning to feel like the specter at the feast. Or the fox at the hunt.”

Willie Foot did his best not to yawn. “Don’t worry about it, Charles. Most of the College of Cardinals feel the same way.”

“You mean with the press chasing all of us?” Cardinal Mendosa asked, not paying much attention; he was waiting anxiously.

“I mean the press wants to get the latest on Pope An, and what’s happening in the Church,” Willie explained with the appearance of patience.

“But I’m
for
her. I’m on her side. I love what she’s doing.” He waved suddenly, summoning a ten-year-old Bronco to approach. “You’ll like my brother-in-law. He’s not an idiot.”

“That’s a back-handed compliment if ever I heard one,” said Willie as the Bronco drew near. “What did he do to deserve it?”

“He had the good sense to marry my sister, for one,” said Mendosa with a true Texas smirk. “And he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

The Bronco pulled up beside them, windshield wipers flicking nervously. The passenger door opened, and from inside a friendly voice called out, “Chaz!”

“Hello there, Spook,” Mendosa answered as he ambled toward the Bronco, lugging his two suitcases, his garment bag over his shoulder. “Give me a hand with this shit, will you?”

“Okay,” came the answer, and the hazard lights went on before the driver’s door opened.

Whatever Willie Foot had been expecting, it was not a square-built six-foot-five Indian with dark red hair. He grabbed his bags and hurried after Mendosa.

As he caught up with them, the back of the Bronco was being opened for the luggage. “Sorry,” he said by way of introduction and apology.

Mendosa grinned. “Willie, this is my brother-in-law, Elihu Nimmo. Spook, this is Fitzwilliam Ellery Jocelin Foot.” He watched as Willie put down one of his bags to shake hands with Nimmo. “How’s the family?” he asked as Nimmo put the luggage into the Bronco.

“Eager to see you. And don’t worry,” he added before Mendosa could speak, “they know better than to blab that you’re visiting. After Saturday’s riot, we’ve had press all over the place, and news cameras on the front lawn. The kids know that they’re after you, and they won’t give you away.” He slammed the rear door and brushed off his hands. “Come on. Dinner’s waiting.”

“It’s what you British call country hours around here. We have dinner at mid-day, as if we expected to go back out and plow the south forty before supper,” said Mendosa to Willie as he went to fold down the passenger seat in order to climb into the back. “I know what this town looks like. You can ride shotgun.”

Willie held out his hand in protest, then said, “And if the newsmedia realize the limo’s a decoy, they won’t be looking in the backseat of a Bronco, will they?”

“Something like that,” said Mendosa. He took a deep breath. “What’s the place like?”

“You mean since the riot?” asked Nimmo bluntly. “Antsy. People are upset about what Cardinal Walgren’s been saying.”

“
I’m
upset by what Vince is saying,” Mendosa declared roundly. “And I’ll repeat that as often as I have to, to anyone who asks.”

“Cut it out, Chaz. I’m not arguing with you.” Nimmo was neither annoyed nor amused. “I think you might remember that a few of your Cardinals have gotten hurt over what your Pope is doing, that’s all.” He looked at Willie. “How’s that French fellow doing? The one who’s been in the hospital.”

“You mean Gemme?” asked Willie, startled to be included in the mild dispute. “Better, but he’s going to require more plastic surgery, and there isn’t much they can do about his voice. One of the rocks struck him in the neck—broke his jaw and cheekbone and damaged his larynx.”

Nimmo nodded and said to Mendosa. “See why we worry about you? You come out in support of Pope An, and that causes an uproar. Then, when everyone’s starting to get used to having her in office, Walgren gets a hair up his ass and rakes her over the coals and calls her the agent of the Antichrist. He’s had lots of coverage, because of Reverend Williamson and his ilk. Now both Williamson and Walgren are after you. You’ve been following all that, haven’t you? Sure you have, I know you.” He signaled the guard by the plane. “You’re going from the frying pan to the fire, if you want my opinion.”

“Not especially, but thanks,” said Mendosa, then added, “Trouble or not, it’s good to be home.”

Nimmo got into the driver’s seat and turned off the hazard lights. “I hope you think so this time tomorrow, when the news conference is over.” He checked behind him, his shoulders hunched. He made himself sit up. “Sorry,” he said to Willie, feeling self-conscious, “it’s habit.”

“Spook did some odd jobs for the CIA a decade or so ago,” said Mendosa to Willie. “That’s why we call him Spook.”

“Well, I like that better than Elihu,” said Nimmo with feeling. They had picked up speed and were almost in the shelter between two hangars with an open gate ahead of them. He reduced speed and checked the road beyond the fence, eyes narrowing with concentration. “Chaz, put your head down, just in case.”

“Smart,” said Mendosa, ducking his head as they headed out of the airport. “I hate having to do this. Sneaking back into my own Archdiocese like a criminal deprived of sanctuary. I don’t believe I’m in the wrong. I don’t believe the Pope is in the wrong. I don’t see why I have to be the one to be on guard. If you tell me it makes sense, Spook, I’ll strangle you.” He resisted the urge to peer out the window. “Any sign of watchers?” he asked as Nimmo paused at the gate and turned left.

“Not that I notice,” said Nimmo. “What about you, Foot?”

“Willie, for God’s sake,” he said. “No one, nothing I recognize…no. Wait. There’s a white van down the way a bit. It looks like—”

“Live at Five; you got it,” said Nimmo, glancing the way Willie was pointing. “They haven’t noticed us yet, but that doesn’t mean much.”

Mendosa hunched down further and turned his head away from the window. “The rain helps, doesn’t it.”

“It seems to,” said Nimmo carefully. “If they don’t know this truck, it gives us an edge. If they know the truck—” They headed north, picking up the freeway in less than a mile. “Unless they’ve got helicopters looking for you, we ought to be okay now, Chaz.”

“Helicopters,” said Mendosa, shaking his head. “What am I, an escaped convict? It’s bad enough to have to practice this deception. I hope things aren’t going to be worse yet. I don’t want to be chased all over south Texas by newspeople.” He hit the back of the seat with his fist, and then deliberately opened his hand. “Sorry. That was very bad form.”

“You’re entitled,” said Nimmo, settling into steady driving. Traffic was moderate and moving smoothly, which gave him the chance for light conversation. “Both girls are home, incidentally. Rick’s up in Fort Worth; he’ll be back in a week. He said to tell you he’s sorry he missed you. And John’s in San Diego on business. He’s supposed to be back tomorrow night.”

“San Diego’s near Walgren,” said Mendosa thoughtfully. “Good thing his name is Nimmo and not Mendosa out there.” He sat up straight and stretched out his legs. “Those seats in planes give me the bends.”

Nimmo chuckled obligingly. “I know the problem,” said Nimmo, who was a couple inches taller than Mendosa. “Serves you right. And it makes you grouchy.” He shifted over to the inside lane and picked up speed. “Taylor wanted to come with me, but I said no. Someone could have recognized her. She’s been on the news three times in the last two weeks.”

“A reasonable precaution,” said Willie. “She’s apt to be watched for. I’ve used the technique myself, staying away from recognizable friends.”

“Haven’t we all, one way and another?” said Nimmo, a brief look in his eyes that was colder than anything Willie would have thought possible. He turned the fan up higher so that the condensation forming on the windows would fade, saying to Mendosa as he did, “Brenda came especially to see you, since you’re becoming so famous.”

“How’s she doing at college?” asked Mendosa, pleased to have some subject other than the Pope and the riots to talk about.

“She’s doing pretty well—good grades and high enthusiasm—but she’s afraid that she’s starting to lose her faith. She told me that she can’t stop questioning everything. She wants to talk to you about that.” Nimmo noticed his radar detector brighten and reduced his speed a bit, moving one lane to the right. “This is not the time for a ticket.”

“Probably not,” said Mendosa, then returned to the subject of his niece. “How serious is this loss of faith? Is it the usual college thing, or something more? Did she say?”

“She’s worried. She doesn’t want to disappoint you.” Nimmo watched carefully as a police car shot by in the left-most lane.

“Disappoint me?” Mendosa echoed. “It doesn’t have anything to do with me. It’s between her and God. If she discovers that faith has no meaning for her, then she must follow her conscience. I can’t will someone to believe if it isn’t in them to do it. And I can accept that not everyone can believe, or perhaps ought to believe. Look at what Torquemada did in the name of faith—he would have done better to lose it early. So I’d rather she broke with the Church and followed her own way, if that’s what’s in her to do, than see her remain a Catholic and practice religion by rote. Catholics like that have been the bane of the Church for fifteen hundred years.”

“You look surprised,” Willie said, for he had been watching Nimmo while Mendosa was speaking.

“I shouldn’t be. I’ve known Chaz long enough that I ought to know by now that he isn’t a party-line man.” He signaled and moved over to the right again. “Exit after next. Better keep low once we leave the freeway. I’ll bet there’ll be newsmedia types staking out the neighborhood. They’d be all over the house if I hadn’t called the cops this morning. With you coming into town, they want to get to you any way they can.”

“It’s reprehensible that they try to reach me through you. Thank God that they don’t know I’m staying with you until day after tomorrow.” Mendosa made a gesture of resignation. “You’re probably right. Okay. I’ll get down.”

“I’m impressed at how well south Texas does flat,” said Willie when Nimmo slid the Bronco into the outer lane.

“Yeah, that’s one of its talents,” said Nimmo phlegmatically. “Nothing to stop the twisters when they come blasting through.” He swung off the freeway and pulled onto the interchange, signaling to take the overpass to the left. “You notice it out in the country like this. In the city, there’s so many big buildings that you forget it’s mostly flat. There are a few hills, but they aren’t much to speak of.”

“Spook raises Quarterhorses; he has sixty acres out here,” said Mendosa from the back seat where he had once again hunched down. “Maybe you better turn your face aside, too, Willie. You’re not an unknown any more.”

“True,” said Willie, raising his shoulder to block the side of his face. “Ought I to wear a moustache, or a wig?” He was only half-joking as he asked, and was answered more seriously than he had anticipated.

“It might not be a bad idea when we go into Houston tomorrow. We don’t want to attract attention.” Mendosa sighed. “Is Tom at home?”

“Sure is,” said Nimmo. “Now that he’s opened his practice, he’s with us regularly.” He sounded pleased and troubled at once. They were across the overpass and heading out along a wide, straight road where suburban faded into rural. “Another ten minutes and we’ll be there.”

“There’s two cars on the roadside back there,” said Mendosa, who was watching the road behind them over the back of the rear seat. “Pointed this way. One of them has a car-phone.”

“It might not mean anything,” said Willie.

“And it could be scouts for AP&T,” said Nimmo. “Keep an eye on them, just in case.”

The next two miles were uneventful, and Mendosa was starting to unwind. Nimmo’s shoulders began to relax and he drove more easily. The rain was starting to let up and the first promise of a clear evening made all three men less tense. The portals at the drive of the Nimmo ranch were just in sight when a large, white van came rushing up behind them, cutting in front of them and squealing to a halt, leaving black streaks on the roadway.

“What the bloody—” Willie said. “Lunatics!”

“I got a feeling our luck just ran out,” said Nimmo, his shoulders hard and high again. He had brought the Bronco to a near-stop, looking for the means to pass the white van and get into his driveway. His demeanor was very cool; to the casual observer he might appear bored, though Willie could sense the tension under his unperturbed air. “Chaz, would you mind curling up on the floor for a couple of minutes? This isn’t going to last long.”

Mendosa sighed. “Newsmedia. I suppose I must,” he said, and dropped down between the front and back seats, his long legs pulled up against his chest. In a muffled voice, he warned, “I don’t think I can keep this up too long.”

“Just shut up,” said Nimmo, watching as a man with a camera perched on his shoulder like a malign pet, strode up to the Bronco. Nimmo cracked the window and looked at the fellow. “What is it this time?” he asked without preamble or greeting.

“You have a passenger, Mister Nimmo,” said the man with the camera. Behind him a second man, black, handsome, dressed sleekly, was fussing with his well-styled hair.

“No kidding. I hadn’t noticed.” He addressed the interviewer instead of the cameraman. “DuBois, don’t you ever quit?”

Henry DuBois was more successful adjusting his smile than his hair; the wind continued to finger it, showing his bald spot more than he liked. “I have a job to do, Mister Nimmo. The people have a right to be informed.”

“About what?” said Nimmo, making his voice so flat that Willie applauded him mentally.

“About your brother-in-law—Cardinal Charles Mendosa,” said DuBois, making the very name an accusation. He came nearer, moving up beside the cameraman and looking Nimmo directly in the eye as he tried to peer up and over.