“Oh, there is no doubt about it. I am surprised you haven’t considered what this could mean to the Orthodox Church. The Vatican has advocated policies that have often made your position more precarious than necessary. Now, if they alter that posture, it might make your situation more awkward than it already is, with all the recent changes.”
“I am certain that will not happen,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko, thinking that surely Piet van Hooven would warn him if such alterations were in the offing.
“Are you?” Karodin did not further dispute this. “We have made inquiries about this woman in Szechwan Province, and have learned little that would account for the interest in her, which is the more perplexing. She is an honorable widow from what we can determine, a local magistrate of some kind, with a reputation for fairness and good sense.” He looked at Metropolitan Gosteshenko with an expression that might have been open on anyone else.
“I cannot comment. I know nothing about it.” He tried another cookie and found it had lost its savor.
“Would you like to speculate?” Karodin suggested without a trace of apology for his blatant pressure-tactics.
“No,” said Metropolitan Gosteshenko. “It might not be convenient for you, General, but the fact of the matter is that I have no more knowledge about why the Roman Catholic Church is hunting a Chinese peasant woman, or why the conclave is in recess, than does the average watcher of television. Anything I might say would not be of use to you.”
“I don’t think you appreciate yourself, Metropolitan. However,” he went on with an impish smile, “we won’t press it now. I do think you are telling the truth as you see it, that you are not well-informed on this case.” His eyes twinkled, but whether from amusement or cynicism, neither Karodin nor Gosteshenko could say.
“Thank you, General.” He managed to swallow the last of his tea without coughing.
Karodin lifted his cup as if offering a toast. “To you as well, Metropolitan.”
* * *
What always impressed Alexander, Cardinal Bradeston of Boston was how small the Oval Office was. And when the President was the six-foot-six former running back Houghton Carey, then the room shrank around him.
“Good morning, Cardinal Bradeston,” said President Carey, rising and extending his hand, negotiating the delicate protocol of a pro forma Methodist accepting an official visit from the Vatican. “Always good to see you.”
“Thank you, Mister President,” said Cardinal Bradeston, glad that he had chosen to wear secular clothes. He shook the President’s hand and waited until Carey had sat down before he did the same. “Very good of you to make room in your schedule, given how short my notice was.”
“Well,” said President Carey, turning his hand over on the polished rosewood surface of his over-sized desk.
“And there would not have been a request if the circumstances had not dictated the necessity,” Cardinal Bradeston said.
“I assumed something of the sort,” said President Carey, who had been surprised when his appointments secretary informed him of the unexpected arrival of Cardinal Bradeston. “What’s on your mind?”
“Not just my mind, I’m afraid, Mister President,” said Cardinal Bradeston with a slight hesitation as he sought for the words to describe his predicament. “We’re in need of a…a diplomatic intermediary, and it is the hope of many of us that you might be willing to serve in that capacity.” He looked directly at Houghton Carey. “It’s a very uncertain situation, and the Vatican is not in a position to pursue the matter directly; not at present, in any case,” he added truthfully, thinking of the nine other Cardinals who were on missions similar to his own.
“A diplomatic intermediary? I wouldn’t have thought that the Vatican needed anyone in—” He broke off, recalling the rumors that had been circulating for the last week that the Vatican was trying to find someone or something in the People’s Republic of China.
“The Vatican is its own state, of course, but our diplomatic relations are…strained in certain quarters. We have no embassy in Iran, for example.” He grinned to show that this was supposed to be a joke and was rewarded by a brief chuckle from the President.
“All right,” said Houghton Carey. “I gather that the problem is with one of these nations.” He leaned back in his specially designed chair. “Let’s spare the tap dance, Eminence, and we’ll stipulate that the country is the PRC, right?”
“Yes,” said Cardinal Bradeston.
“The word is that you have to find someone there. They’ve got pretty good records in Beijing,” he declared without pausing for breath, “and they ought to be able to find this person for you in forty-eight hours, tops.” He indicated three telephones on his desk. “Or did you want to use my direct line?”
“Not precisely,” said Cardinal Bradeston, doing his best to keep from sounding disappointed. “What we had hoped—all of us participating in this search—was that you would be willing to support our petition to bring this woman out of China to the Vatican.”
“She’s that important?” President Carey asked skeptically.
“Apparently. We have reason to think so, yes,” said Cardinal Bradeston, a trifle grimly.
“It’s ticklish,” said the President with the slight, candid smile it had taken him years to perfect. “We’ve got separation of Church and State, Cardinal, and if we take action on your behalf, as you ought to remember from your civics classes in high school, we leave ourselves open to criticism that we have not honored that basic philosophy of the Constitution.” He folded his hands on the desk. “I don’t know if I can help you.”
Cardinal Bradeston knew that he had a very few minutes remaining in his appointment, so he abandoned most of his arguments in favor of the one he thought might have the most political weight; he did not bother with subtle preparation. “Is this because it’s about Catholicism, or because it’s about an Asian woman?”
President Carey sat up a little straighter. “Well, well, well, well, you can hit below the belt, can’t you, Eminence?”
“It wasn’t what I—” Cardinal Bradeston started only to be cut off.
“Oh, don’t spoil the effect, Bradeston. You found the Achilles heel in my posture and you used it. Good for you.” He looked up. “I used to look out at the Rose Garden, but it’s too distracting.”
Cardinal Bradeston did his best not to hold his breath. In his mind he repeated the Fifty-first Psalm, his thoughts turned inward to keep him from revealing how much he wanted to sway the President to support him and his request. When one of the telephones jangled, he almost jumped.
President Carey thumbed the intercom. “Maxine, take care of that for me, will you?”
“At once, Mister President,” the voice on the intercom assured him.
“Now then,” said Houghton Carey when the telephone was silent, “you need an assist to get this woman out of China, and for some reason you have to get her to the Vatican. You mind telling me why?”
“I’m sorry,” said Cardinal Bradeston, looking away. “I am sorry, Mister President, but—”
“I’m sorry too,” said President Carey with false concern. “If I don’t know what I’m endorsing I can’t very well act on it in good conscience, can I? Especially something like this, international, where the repercussions could have pretty serious political fall-out if anything goes wrong.” His teeth flashed in what was supposed to be a smile.
“It’s a very awkward problem, Mister President,” said Cardinal Bradeston, aware that every word he was saying was being recorded by at least three different security organizations.
“So is being accused of getting it wrong, Your Eminence.” He started to rise, his hand extended for a last, cordial handshake. “Well, it’s too bad that I—”
“We need to find her,” Cardinal Bradeston interrupted. He saw that he had the President’s attention. “Without her, the conclave may have to be suspended for an indefinite period, and the Catholic Church cannot continue much longer without a leader. You
understand what risks we would run if we had to keep on as we are. We have no means to proceed if there is no Pope.”
“And this woman will make a difference?” Houghton Carey asked, his brows raised inquisitively, his expression one of polite disbelief.
“Yes, we think so,” said Cardinal Bradeston, already dreading how he would have to explain the matter to the President once the widow arrived in Rome.
“Un-huh,” said the President, caution in every aspect.
“And your support could go a long way to…easing the transition.” He wished he had said it better; but short of revealing the details of the election, he could not offer more.
“Is that what Cardinal Mendosa’s doing in China?” President Carey asked, satisfied at the shock he saw in Cardinal Bradeston’s face. “Oh, don’t be so surprised: we knew where he was ten minutes after he got off the plane in Hong Kong.”
“It…has something to do with this, yes,” said Cardinal Bradeston. “It isn’t an official visit.”
“No kidding,” said President Carey with heavy sarcasm. “On his way to the central part of the country and not one diplomatic or parochial stop along the way. No notice sent to the PRC, or to Premier Zuo; nothing formal arranged. What are you up to, Cardinal?”
Cardinal Bradeston sighed and stared out the window. In the garden beyond someone was trimming one of the hedges, with a Marine guard not far away from him. “I truly wish I knew.” He looked back at Houghton Carey, conceding defeat. “Yes, Charles Mendosa is looking for the woman in question.” Then he was rising, extending his hand. “I ask your pardon for intruding in your busy schedule this way and I thank you on behalf of the Holy See for your attention.”
Now that he was off the hook, President Carey did not want to be, for he might be excluded from later developments, which did not suit him, not with an American Cardinal right in the middle of it. “Wait a minute,” he protested. “Charles Mendosa comes from Houston, Cardinal or not. He’s a damned Texan. And now he’s off in the PRC, flying blind from what you say. What are you people up to? And why?”
“We’re trying to find a certain widow,” said Cardinal Bradeston with a great show of patience. “I doubt that’s much of a secret any more. Until we find her, we will not know what to do next.”
“But you need her because of the conclave?” the President said, his brows drawn together. “You priests—the whole Church—are always following your private agendas, that’s the trouble.”
“Unlike politicians?” Cardinal Bradeston countered with a wisp of a smile.
“You got me there,” President Carey allowed, making himself relax and return the smile. “Trouble is, if I tell you yes and the whole thing is a fuck-up, then I’m up to my neck in it. But if it turns out fine, and it gets out that I didn’t do my part, I’m still up to my neck in it.” He nodded once, decisively. “Okay. I tell you what: when you hear from Cardinal Mendosa, you call me—my secretary will give you the numbers to use—and you tell me what you’ve found out. So long as it isn’t going to embarrass this administration or stir up any more religious feeling than’s out there already, I want to do my part. If it looks like it’s going to turn sour, I want you to know that I won’t be able to help you.” He put his big hands flat on the glossy desk. “That’s the deal. I’m not going to haggle about it.”
“What about the Secretary of State?” asked Cardinal Bradeston, not wanting to discover that the whole offer was nothing more than a political gesture, without substance.
“I’ll explain things to her,” said President Carey. “She’ll go along with what I decide on this.” He cocked his head at the Cardinal. “You remember the flak she took at her confirmation hearing because of religion? Be glad it happened. You know she’ll leave this alone after it’s settled.” He rose, once again dwarfing the Cardinal from Boston. “I hear that your guy in Baltimore’s been buzzing around State, too.”
“Cardinal Durand has arranged a few discussions, yes. But as far as I know, the Secretary of State has not agreed to see him.” Cardinal Bradeston kept his neutral expression with some effort.
“But you were kind of hoping I’d clear away some of the—” He made a wide motion as if shoving brush aside.
“We would appreciate it, Mister President, and we would pray for you.” He stood still, his eyes never leaving Houghton Carey’s rugged face.
The President laughed out loud. “Goddam, you guys are canny, as my old grandmother used to say. You hedge your bets better than the best Las Vegas hotshot.” His mirth was gone as quickly as it came. “All right; I’ll call the Secretary of State and tell her to arrange a meeting with Cardinal Durand. But you’d better warn your Baltimore colleague that he’s going to have to be more forthcoming than you’ve been with me if he expects to get anywhere with Abby. She’s a tough and skillful woman, and she’s nobody’s, and I mean nobody’s fool. Not even mine.”
“Thank you, Mister President,” said Cardinal Bradeston, trying to decide if he ought to offer a blessing. “It was good of you to give me so much time on such short notice.” He started toward the door, relieved that the very awkward visit was over.
“By the way, Your Eminence,” said the President, “my time is pretty full. I don’t think I can do much with the Secretary of State until you let me know what Mendosa’s up to. You know how it is, I’m sure. You should be able to do that in the next forty-eight hours, shouldn’t you?”
Cardinal Bradeston bit back a sharp retort, though his eyes snapped. He nodded once. “Certainly, Mister President.” He hated having his hand forced this way, but knew it was little enough, given what the Church was asking.
Houghton Carey showed him a predatory grin. “Thank you, Your Eminence.”
Chapter 7
“Why would a journalist be traveling with a member of the clergy of the Roman Catholic Church?” The military officer asking the question still held all of Willie Foot’s documents in his hand, though he had returned Charles Mendosa’s to him.
“I speak Chinese and Mendosa does not,” said Willie promptly, glad that he could offer the truth as an explanation. “I have served as a translator for him before this journey. There was a Catholic meeting, you will recall, on Asian issues in Manila, which I covered, and where I was able to assist Cardinal Mendosa. As it happens, I was on assignment in Rome when he decided to make this trip, and he asked me to accompany him.”
“And why is it that this journey was not arranged through proper diplomatic channels?” the officer inquired. It was quite warm in the characterless roadside building where the army had stopped them. There was a pervasive odor of machine oil still on the air. He looked from Willie to Mendosa. “And why is the churchman not in church garments? It is required of them, is it not? Perhaps he is attempting to reintroduce missionaries to our country.”
Willie relayed this at once, adding, “You better have any answer for that; they’re touchy about missionaries.”
“Tell the…whatever his rank is, address him as one level higher. Tell him that I am not here for any purpose but to speak to one woman near Hongya, that I do not wear clerical garb because I am not here as a priest, and I do not wish to give offence to the Chinese people. Besides,” he added more lightly, “I’d much rather wear what I’ve got on now than a cassock.”
“The churchman is making a joke of us!” the officer accused sharply, eyes unforgiving as he heard amusement in Mendosa’s voice. He took a single, hasty step toward the Cardinal, but was halted by Willie’s answer.
“About the clerical clothing,” said Willie, hastening to provide the required explanation. He went on to relay Mendosa’s comments and said, “I have known Mendosa for some time, Captain. He wears his priest’s clothing only when necessary. He does not approve of the abuse of position and asks for no privilege, thus he clothes himself like the people of his native Texas. He has created a controversy about it within his Church.”
“Has he?” Abruptly the officer signaled to Nigel No. “Is what they have s
aid so far true?”
The driver stood very straight to answer. “As far as I know, yes, everything is true. I have even read a year ago that Cardinal Mendosa had offended one of the other high-ranking Church officials because he likes to wear cowboy boots and business suits. As you see, he is wearing his boots now.” He appeared completely respectful, but when he gave Willie a quick glance, he winked.
The officer was torn; he did not want to appear curious about this American, and at the same time, he had only once before seen a real pair of cowboy boots up close. He did his best not to stare too obviously. “A foolish dispute,” he announced as he tapped his hand with Willie’s documents. “There is no reason to detain you at present,” he decided aloud. “But I will send a full report of this incident, and if there is any change in your plans, no matter how minor, you must notify this station at once. Is that understood?” He held out the documents to Willie. “We will keep watch for you, Mister Foot, Mister Mendosa, and we will make note of all you do.”
“No doubt,” said Willie as he reclaimed his passport, visa, and press credentials.
“Inform the…Captain,” said Mendosa, “that we are grateful to him for his concern, and his determination to protect the people of his country from misinformation. Integrity is an admirable quality in an officer. I take it as an honor that he would devote any of his valuable time to our inquiries. No doubt he has more pressing duties, but he gives time to us as well.” He waited as Willie relayed this remark, and listened to the reply as if the words made sense to him.
“He says that the People’s Republic has the welfare of all men at heart, and strives to show the world the best way, in the face of the failure of other communist states.” Willie tucked his papers back into his large inner-jacket pocket. “How did you know that would get a positive response?”
“Willie, dear Willie,” said Mendosa with an angelic smile, “I read the papers, and those of us in the upper echelons of the Church are not nearly so insulated as we once were. John-Paul II made me the secretary to his Office of Asian Affairs, and it has long been part of my job to pay attention to what happens here. Premiere Zuo has been doing his best to make internationalism the new line, and I’m merely adopting his rhetoric.” He nodded to the young officer. “How old is he, do you think?”
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