“That’s our position, if you want to put it that way,” Greene said, looking smug. “You, being Father Edward McEllton’s nephew, have good reason to visit him. You have been in Italy four times in the last three years, so it would not be remarkable for you to go again, would it?”
“My uncle isn’t at the Vatican now,” said McEllton, wondering if that admission was a blunder. “And he did not see me the last four times I was in Rome.”
“He’s at a monastery outside Rome: yes, we are aware of that. And that is the reason we want you to call on him. Inside the Vatican, he would be on guard and might not tell you what we wish to find out. But now that he is removed from the Vatican, he might be willing to reveal what happened in the conclave that has brought about this recess.” Greene patted the case he carried. “We are prepared to pay handsomely, if you will recall the letter we sent you: thirty thousand dollars to make the journey, no matter what you learn, and a bonus of fifty thousand if you can bring us accurate and timely information. With the twenty we’ve already sent as a show of good faith, that makes a tidy one hundred thousand, tax free.”
“For the reason for the recess and the length of time it’s expected to go on?” McEllton asked, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “A high price for a little speculation.”
From somewhere beyond the hedge there was a squeal of brakes and the sudden disruption of the susurrus of traffic. Several angry voices were raised but there were no cries for help.
“It wouldn’t be speculation—” He stopped as two young women came down the path on glossy horses: they were cantering, which was not permitted within the park, perhaps because their mounts had been frightened by the accident. One was fully rigged out in field boots, breeches and hacking jacket while the other wore a fringed shirt, jeans and red lizard western boots. Both rode in English saddles. They laughed as they went by.
“It wouldn’t be speculation,” Greene repeated when the girls were safely out of earshot. “It would be more like an educated guess or maybe something more certain. We’ve already exhausted the speculation of those who are Vatican-watchers, and we need something more, something inside. Father McEllton has served as secretary to the conclave, and he knows what is going on there whether he’s in attendance or not. He is one of the few who would not tend to misinterpret the events. You agree? We want to know what he knows, that’s all.”
“All? Uncle Neddy's as tight as a clam on Vatican things.” He looked away from Greene. “Why should he tell me anything, nephew or no? He knows I haven’t set foot in a church to worship since I was sixteen.”
“A man of your…profession might well suffer a change of heart as he ages, given your past,” said Greene significantly, and the sound of his voice was so cynical that McEllton stared at him.
“I don’t think Uncle Neddy would accept that,” said McEllton slowly, a smile of reluctant respect for Uncle Neddy brightening his features.
“Then find another reason. A good one. I’m sure you can think of something plausible as you go to Rome,” Greene insisted. “It is worth it to us to pay you to go. Aren’t you curious yourself about what’s been going on in the Catholic Church? Don’t you watch the news about it?”
McEllton shrugged, but he knew—and he suspected Greene knew as well—that his indifference was sham. “You do understand that I might not find out anything? Uncle Neddy might refuse to see me, and if he does see me, he might not talk with me about the Pope or anything else. It may be a wasted trip, do you see.”
“You still come out fifty thousand ahead, and even in these inflationary days, fifty thousand is a comfortable sum. There will be no questions to answer about the money, and you will be able to hide it away in your numbered account.” Greene rose. “I will expect to hear from you within ten days. I suppose you can arrange to get to Rome and back to London in that time?” His sarcasm was blatant now and he looked at McEllton with abiding contempt. “The tools we must use.”
McEllton refused to be dragged into the exchange. “Shocking, isn’t it?” he replied lightly and watched Greene walk away.
* * *
Traffic appeared light to Foot and Mendosa on the Revolutionary Highway but the driver assured them earnestly that it was much heavier than two years before when the roadway had first opened. “There was a great rush to complete it. In preparation for dealing with Hong Kong,” he added in excellent, British-accented English. “Now that we are getting all reunified, trade has picked up, shipping’s on the increase, and during the transition there will be more business coming here. China is like that, historically, always eager for foreign trade, and alert to finding new markets. With arrangements as they are.…” He made a gesture that Mendosa interpreted as philosophical resignation.
“It seems a reasonable compromise,” said Willie Foot, “the way they’ve arranged things with Hong Kong. It makes it easier for everyone, the PRC as well as Hong Kong.”
“Yes. Better for keeping trade and money. Not so much fuss,” said the driver who answered to Nigel as well as to No Xingchou. “No need to use the army or fight about anything, not the way some do in Europe. The People’s Republic leadership doesn’t want another loss of face the way they had about a decade back. They learned quite a lesson then, though they didn’t realize it for a while. They don’t like seeing their mistakes on the worldwide evening news, with half the nations on earth calling them murderers.” He laughed loudly and pointed to a huge, concrete building. “Zuo Nangkao does not underestimate the pressure of world opinion, particularly in trade negotiations. He wishes to return prosperity to the Center of the World. So the new transition with Hong Kong and these preparations dovetail. They’re putting up more warehouses along the highway, so that Guangzhou won’t get too congested. It’s pretty bad already.” He paused. “We used to wonder how Hong Kong would accommodate China in the transition, and now Zuo is discovering that the more difficult problem is how China will accommodate Hong Kong. Everyone assumed that it would make no difference, which was a great error, I fear.” He continued to smile.
“How long before we reach Congqing?” asked Mendosa. Urban sprawl was nothing new to him, and he paid it scant attention, less than he might have if he had not been on such an urgent errand. Little as he wanted to admit it, he was nervous. He had wakened with visions in his eyes, and the face he had not seen clearly before was now indelibly in his mind. He would know that woman anywhere in the world.
“If the weather is good and there are no delays we will be there by mid-afternoon.” Nigel No pointed to a heavy truck laden with roofing tiles lumbering down the road in the opposite direction. “That’s assuming they honor our gas ration and we don’t have to scrounge some.”
“Oh?” Willie perked up. “Do you think there’s any danger of that?”
“Well, a little,” said Nigel. “Time before last we had to chase around for fuel because some government officials came through first. Seven limousines and two army trucks for support. They dried up official gas for half a day in every direction. I haven’t seen anything like that this time, but you never know.” He nodded in the direction of a farm set away from the Revolutionary Highway. “The farmers usually have fuel but they charge three times the set price for it.”
“In this country?” Willie asked in mock horror.
“We Chinese know the difference between profit and ideology,” said Nigel, laughing again. “And another thing, speaking of ideology, you both remember we aren’t going to tell anyone what Mendosa does, right?”
“We’ve agreed about that,” Mendosa said. He was dressed casually and had left off the lapel pin that identified him as a Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church. By all outward appearances, he was a middle-aged American tourist who was in the company of a British journalist. “I don’t want trouble any more than you do.” In fact, he added it to himself, he wanted it much less.
“No blessings at meals,” warned Nigel.
“No blessings, no prayers, no genuflecting, nothing like that,�
� said Mendosa as he had promised the day before. “Just another round-eye.”
“Someone might wonder why a round-eye wants to go to Hongya,” Nigel No reminded him.
“I have to check out some information, that’s all.” It was the answer they had rehearsed and Mendosa was tired of it. “I know a little about dealing with people, and officials. I think I can manage it.”
Willie put his hand on Mendosa’s arm. “Relax, Eminence. Take it easy; we still have a long way to go.”
“It’s Charles while we’re here, Willie.” Mendosa took a deep, deliberate breath and tried to stretch out his long legs in the cramped confines of the car. “I’ll strive to keep calm. Thanks for reminding me.”
“And thanks for reminding me, Charles,” said Willie, emphasizing the last two words and wishing he could say Mendosa’s first name with ease and comfort.
“I was born in Hong Kong,” Nigel remarked a little later. “But most of the family was still in the PRC and we spent years learning to pass messages and people in and out. I’ve missed that this last year, but having you along, Mendosa, it takes me back.”
Mendosa smiled. “You’re enjoying yourself.”
Nigel nodded emphatically. “Oh, goddam yes!”
* * *
“Come, come, there is no reason to suppose that I am investigating anything,” said Dmitri Karodin smoothly to his guest. “If this were an investigation, we would not be meeting at my home, would we?” His apartment was large and handsome even by some European standards; from a Russian perspective, the head of the KGB lived in luxury. “My cook has made some of those little Italian cookies you like so much, the ones with anise that are not very sweet.”
“Too kind,” said Metropolitan Pavel Gosteshenko, watching his host narrowly. He had almost decided he ought not to have come, and having come, ought not to have pretended that this was a social visit.
“You like many things Italian, don’t you?” said Karodin at his most genial. “You were in Rome only a short while ago, and you said that you were well-received by your friends in the Catholic Church. I attended the reception on your return, as you may remember, and I found your assessment of the Catholic predicament very…instructive. You have excellent comprehension of the political issues. No doubt having Cardinals from all over the world makes a difference in the Church’s stance. It’s that Dutch Cardinal you like especially, isn’t it? the one who used to be a psychiatrist. Don’t you ever question his motives at becoming a churchman after learning about the human psyche? I could not comprehend such a change. He is clearly a rational man. How is it possible for an educated man to accept such blatantly mythic legends as virgin births and rising from the dead as anything but a metaphor? And if a metaphor, what is the need for worship and ritual?” He permitted himself a rich chuckle, then did his best to appear contrite. “I’m sorry if I have given you offence, Metropolitan.”
Metropolitan Gosteshenko fixed his expression to one of neutral benevolence. “We are used to such questions, and worse,” he said pointedly. “There are more than a few Russians who have earned their martyrs’ crowns in the last century.”
“Touché,” said Karodin with a fencer’s gesture. Then he looked up as his cook came into the drawing room. “Ah, here are the Italian cookies. I must say, I can understand why you like these,” he added as he took one from the platter after the Metropolitan had his first.
As he took a second cookie, Metropolitan Gosteshenko looked hard at Karodin. “What is it you want to know?”
“Nothing,” said Karodin with a wave of his hand. “Everything. It is a burden of my office that I am greedy for every bit of information I can find, whether it has any purpose or not. It may be an obsession, something that is not healthy at all. Your friend the Dutch Cardinal might know.” He signaled to his cook. “Tea. Unless you would rather have wine or vodka?”
“Tea is quite satisfactory,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko, being polite as well as apprehensive. He had to admit that the cookies were excellent. “I thank you for this delicacy.”
“An amusement for my cook,” Karodin said, dismissing the thanks. “And a change for me. It is one of the pleasures of travel, I think, having food that is new.” He paused. “Still, rather the Italians than some others I could think of. They’re inspired cooks in Italy.”
“Yes, they are,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko, trying to determine what it was that Karodin was fishing for. “I have several cookbooks from Italy, if you would like to borrow them.”
Karodin inclined his head. “Sadly, my cook reads only Russian. But the offer was generous.” He munched on the cookie, then called out, “The tea, if you please.”
The cook returned shortly with a large, old-fashioned samovar made of polished brass. He put this down and looked over toward Karodin. “Is there anything more?”
“No, Anatoli, thank you, that’s all,” said Karodin, watching while the cook returned to the kitchen. He radiated benevolence and hospitality. “Let me pour you some of this excellent tea. Anatoli is a traditionalist when it comes to tea; the tea is very strong. I recommend sugar.” He had risen and had already selected a cup for his guest.
“Thank you,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko, more on guard than ever. “Sugar would be fine.”
“Try as I will,” said Karodin as he prepared two cups of the dark, steaming tea, “I cannot get used to the British idea of tea, or the Orientals, for that matter. To me, tea must be blacker than coffee and sweet enough to make your eyes water.” He brought the cups back to their chairs, held out both to Metropolitan Gosteshenko so that he could select one. When the churchman had taken one, Karodin went back to his chair. “Frankly, Metropolitan, I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on a mystery that has me quite…bewildered.”
Metropolitan Gosteshenko could not imagine Dmitri Karodin being bewildered by anything, but he did not dispute. With every polite gesture of his host, he grew more troubled. “If it is possible, I will do what I may.”
Karodin was certainly aware of Metropolitan Gosteshenko’s hesitation but ignored it. “I am certain you are as curious about this as I am—indeed, you may be more curious because of your vocation. I have heard—it does not matter how—that there have been some questions asked within the Catholic Church recently. One of the questions concerns a woman in China. What an unexpected turn, a woman in China! and the inquiry coming at such a time. I cannot fathom what the Catholic Church might want with a woman in China, and my informant could provide no hint in that regard. And I learned that two days ago, Cardinal Mendosa of Houston entered the People’s Republic of China through Hong Kong, his mission unknown and unacknowledged. He did not make it an official visit and has paid no diplomatic calls on anyone. For all the fuss he has caused, he might as well not be there at all.” He leaned back and took a long, satisfying sip of tea. “It is a very odd thing for him to do, isn’t it.”
“I suppose he has his reasons,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko, recalling the concerns Cardinal van Hooven had expressed.
“And being an American, he is given to caprice, in spite of being a Cardinal. As I recall, he is a Texan American, which is more capricious still. Texans. I’ve met a few of them, of course, and I watch as much American television as the next man, I confess.” He smiled at his own wit and had a little more tea, giving Metropolitan Gosteshenko the opportunity to speak if he wished to.
Metropolitan Gosteshenko tried not to stare at Karodin, and did his best to choose his words carefully, so that he would not appear to know more than he did, or to be concealing anything from Karodin. “As you remarked, I am not acquainted with many of the Cardinals, and that includes the Cardinal from Houston. If he has decided to locate this Chinese woman for the Church, I suppose he has a good reason to do it, but I don’t know what it is.”
“Something that might embarrass the conclave, perhaps,” Karodin prodded.
“I am not a Catholic Cardinal. I have no way of knowing,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko, thi
nking that the tea was now tasteless.
“No way of knowing,” Karodin echoed. “Then I presume you are as apprehensive as I am. As the head of the Russian Orthodox Church, you must have some feeling for this strange development in the election of the Pope. Your Dutch friend might have mentioned something to you.”
“Not that I am at liberty to discuss,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko, hoping that he had not made a mistake to admit so much.
“But you know something,” Karodin fairly pounced on this. “You know what is going on, and why.”
“Not truly,” countered the Metropolitan hastily. “I have a little information, no more than that, and the rest is surmise. Anything I tell you could be misleading.” He stared down at the dark tea in his cup. “I know that there is interest in the Chinese woman, but I have no idea why.”
“It has to do with the election of the Pope,” said Karodin with conviction. “She is essential to the process for some reason.”
“Apparently,” was the cautious response. “I cannot be sure. I suspect something of the sort to be the case, but that is because of the events in Rome. It is possible that there is no connection and the concern is nothing more than coincidence.” He hoped he sounded convincing.
“Being a rational man I do not believe in coincidence. The conclave is recessed and that Texan goes to China unofficially. To me there must be a link, and I will find out what it is.” He rose and filled his cup again. “Would you like more tea, Metropolitan Gosteshenko?”
Reluctantly he accepted. “Very kind.”
“My pleasure,” said Karodin as he refilled the cup. “You know, if there were to be a change in Vatican policy, it might have repercussions even here in Moscow, Metropolitan.”
“It’s possible,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko as he took the tea and had another cookie. How absurd the whole meeting was, he thought, and tried not to be frightened.
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