There was a mixture of applause and derisive whistles from the huge crowd below. A few people held up banners, most of them denouncing the new Pope and calling for another election.
“This could be very messy,” said Cardinal Sinclair softly. He was standing on Pope An’s immediate right; his ruddy, Irish complexion was sweat-beaded and plum-colored from the combination of heat and embarrassment.
“Patience, Eminence,” Cardinal Mendosa recommended. He was slightly behind Cardinal Sinclair, already uncomfortable in the cumbersome garments required for a Papal coronation. His feet were squeezed into satin shoes which made his arches ache. He longed for his new pair of cowboy boots.
“You know what she’s going to say, don’t you?” Cardinal Sinclair whispered fiercely.
“Not precisely,” said Cardinal Mendosa in his very best drawl. “You never know with Magistrate Zhuang.”
“It is customary to speak on the analects of Jesus at these times, or so I have been informed,” said Pope An. “I can find no reason to depart from that custom. And so I have selected from the records of Matthew and Luke, the seventh and eleventh chapters, respectively.” She waited while the translators caught up with her, little expression on her face.
“She’s not going to change the prayer, is she?” whispered Cardinal Belleau in dismay; he was between Pope An and Willie Foot.
“I doubt it,” Willie whispered back, keeping the rest of his thought—at least for the moment—to himself.
“I have been told I am expected to speak with you about your religion. I will do that.” Pope An took advantage of the translating lag to hand her tall crucifix to Cardinal Fiorivi. “I have been studying the things Jesus said in those texts, and I would like to comment on His admonition that you ask and it will be granted.”
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” murmured Cardinal Sinclair, turning away as if to cough but actually to cross himself.
“I have had this explained to me, and have been instructed on the history of the translation, the various interpretations that have been made of these passages, and I have come to a conclusion it is my intention to explain to you.” Pope An at last looked down into Saint Peter’s Square. “For you have come here to seek, to ask, expecting an answer.”
Cardinal Montebranco had gone quite pale and he tried to catch Cardinal Tsukamara’s eye. He fervently hoped that the many television cameras trained on the balcony had not been able to register the repugnance that he was certain was clear on his face as it was in his heart.
Willie noticed how much the attention of the crowd had changed. He had seen these shifts before, and it made him uneasy. There was nothing he could do to warn Pope An without causing general alarm. He made himself concentrate on her words.
“I tell you this: to receive a thing, you must ask for it. You must name it to receive it. Otherwise you are prey to whims and influences that will turn you from your sincere desire because that desire is undefined. If you do not know what this desire is, then it cannot be given. It is not enough to profess a longing without understanding. Learn what you want to have, for only then can it be within your reach.” Pope An paused, her eyes still on the crowd below. She waited calmly while the translators strove to turn her Chinese into Italian, French, Spanish, German, Russian, Greek, Swedish, Arabic, Samoan and English. A few of the translators relied more on Willie Foot than the Pope herself.
At the edge of the enormous crowd, EECPA Captain Hafen shook his head and glanced over at Commander Bouleau. “We’re both going to see work from this,” he said to his Interpol counterpart.
“At least they’re listening,” said Commander Bouleau, indicating the crowd. “We can worry when they stop.”
“Or someone points a gun,” added Captain Hafen. “Although how we are to get through that mob and keep control, I can’t imagine.”
“Let the Swiss Guard worry about that. They’ve got men all through the crowd, and Vatican security has spotters on the roof. I’m worried about what happens when everyone tries to leave.” Commander Bouleau made a single, significant nod toward the entrance to the piazza. “It could be difficult.”
“That it could,” said Captain Hafen.
Now that the translators had caught up, Pope An continued. “It is said in these analects that if you seek, you will find. It is an idea that has become distorted, or so my studies suggest. I believe it would be wiser to regard the phrase in this context: you cannot find if you will not seek, if you do not know what you are seeking. If you wish to find, seek first, for otherwise you will not achieve the goal of your quest.”
“I hate her calling the Gospels analects,” said Cardinal Jung loudly enough to be heard; he was stiff in his finery and indignation. He was not among those on the balcony. Instead he watched from a specially constructed platform where more than two hundred of the upper-echelon Vatican staff were allowed to share the stands with seventy-one of the eighty Cardinals present, two more slights that the Chinese upstart had visited on him. That she should occupy St. Peter’s chair! He sat very still, determined not to give this woman the satisfaction of knowing how deeply she had offended him. He had intended to be absent for the coronation, but had been dissuaded from such action by his Confessor; now he wondered if he ought to have complied with Bishop Wasserlauf's instructions: surely attending this fiasco was un-Christian.
“Further it is said that the door will open for you. It is also reported that Jesus said you must knock, for if you will not knock, there is no admission. To ask admittance when you do not know what lies beyond may be reckless, as Jesus cautioned you. It is this last that convinces me that the first two parts have been misunderstood, and that each exhortation is intended to guide you to self-knowledge and wisdom, which will not come if you are not willing to pursue them in their own right.” Pope An fell silent again, and for a time her gaze rested on the platform where so many of the Cardinals sat. Her black eyes were tranquil.
The crowd had become attentive, and there was only the sound of shuffling and coughing. In the area reserved for newsmedia, reporters and cameramen alike competed to capture the moment.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” whispered INS anchorman Stephen Goldman into his lapel microphone. “This is amazing.”
“Those who petition without knowing what they ask for will encounter confusion and disappointment. How could they not? If you will not identify what you seek, you will find inappropriate things, and will say that it is the fault of Jesus, not your lack of definition. Only with understanding comes the thing itself.” She reached out and took the tall crucifix once more. She nodded once to Cardinal Fiorivi in acknowledgment of his service.
When Willie had finished his English rendition, he muttered in Chinese to Pope An. “I fear you’ve set the cat among the pigeons.”
She frowned slightly, considering, then nodded. “I take your meaning, but I don’t see reason for the warning. I am doing the thing I have been asked to do.”
“You know as well as I that most of them don’t want that,” said Willie, still in Chinese, keeping his voice very low so that his cautions would not be picked up by the microphones that sprouted in front of them like a bouquet of electronic flowers.
“More than they do not want me?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer, she went on to the last of her address. “Therefore, let each of you seek within himself or herself to find what it is that you truly want to receive; you may find you do not want what you have previously sought, or that the thing you wish for, you have already. Only then will you be able to knock where you wish to enter.” There was not enough room for her to step back more than a few inches, but she did this, lowering her head to show she had finished speaking.
“That’ll light a fire under them,” said Cardinal Mendosa softly as he leaned a bit forward. His mouth was stern but his eyes glinted with humor.
Pope An understood him well enough to respond in inexpert English, “Do you think so?”
“Watch them.” Cardinal Mend
osa pointed down into the piazza. “They’re the gauge.”
As the translations faded a tremendous shout rose from Saint Peter’s Square, fueled by as many emotions as there were mouths to shout.
On the Vatican platform, some of the staff were cheering, following Cardinal Cadini’s emphatic lead, but most cried out in protest and dismay. In the second row, Cardinal Hetre clutched his temples and wished he could bury his face between his knees; his headache was making him quite sick. Behind him, Cardinal van Hooven was the only one who was singing; very softly he began the tenor line of Bach’s Magnificat in D. He wished there were trumpets to accompany him, and a choir to join in.
* * *
“It’s not the kind of thing we can sweep under the table, and certainly not at such a crucial time,” said Cardinal Fiorivi, regarding the nine Princes of the Church who sat in his reception room; all but two of them were in secular clothes, welcoming suits and ties after the elaborate vestments of the previous day. Beside him stood Dionigi Stelo, the head of all Vatican security. Commander Bouleau waited at the far side of the room. “Cardinal Tayibha was murdered. The world press has already reported on his death. It’s not going to go away.”
“What does…the Pope say?” asked Cardinal Hauptberger. He was clearly uncomfortable with the discussion.
Cardinal Fiorivi sighed. “Her Holiness used to be a Magistrate. She said the murder must be investigated.”
“Because she was the target,” dismissed Odo, Cardinal Ruhig of Köln.
“Because a man was killed,” Cardinal Fiorivi told Cardinal Ruhig sharply.
“Because there’s scandal enough without an unsolved murder at the Vatican,” said the titian-haired Leo, Cardinal Pugno of Udine. “And she’s right.”
“Truly,” said Cardinal Fiorivi with a gesture to Dionigi Stelo.
He began without preamble, “The lab report indicated the presence of a poison that is manufactured for quick killing. After a matter of hours it is difficult to detect in the body, for lowering temperatures destroys its traces.” Dionigi Stelo had a soft voice, one that most had to strain to hear; it was part of his authority. All the Cardinals listened closely. “It isn’t readily available, this poison. Most of the time it is used by…shall we say espionage agents. Had it been administered at another time, we might not have been able to demonstrate its presence and the Cardinal’s death would have been attributed to natural causes. We must be thankful that Cardinal Tayibha died so publicly.” As he said the last his voice dropped even more. “We are left with a delicate problem: most governments will not admit they have access to such poisons. And they all do.”
“What are you saying?” asked Cardinal Pingari. He was one of two Cardinals present wearing a cassock.
“Whoever put the poison in the tea had to get it from somewhere. And that person wanted it to be very clear that it was a murder. Whether Cardinal Tayibha was the intended victim, or the Pope, or anyone else present, by administering the poison so that it would kill in full view the murderer made it plain that the poison was intended to be recognized for what it was. As I have remarked, the poison is not easily acquired, not from general nor black market sources. The drug cartels are a possibility, but they have so much poison of their own they could use.…” Dionigi Stelo looked down at the carpet. “In my position I must assume that someone on this staff, or associated with the staff, was able to obtain the poison somehow.”
“And by extension that means a government may be involved as well?” said Cardinal Pugno, his eyes shining and hard as sapphires.
“That is one possible conclusion,” said Stelo carefully.
“Or perhaps a faction within a government is responsible—a group acting on its own authority,” suggested Cardinal Ruhig, who had learned a great deal during the most obdurate part of the Cold War.
“It would seem more likely,” said Stelo after giving Cardinal Fiorivi a quick look. “It is our most reasonable theory at present. We have men working on it.”
“How many?” demanded Cardinal Lepescu.
“It isn’t my place to say, Eminence,” Stelo replied evenly.
“What is the purpose of those extra men?” asked Angelo, Cardinal Damovich of Trieste, his long fingers steepled under his cleft chin.
“They are investigators, protectors,” said Stelo.
“Catholics?” asked Cardinal Pingari.
“Most of them,” said Stelo. He paused. “We have also added to our agents within in the Vatican.”
There was a stillness among the Cardinals. Finally Cardinal Aquilino spoke. “He’s right. The poison had to get into the tea somehow, didn’t it? It didn’t just fly there by itself.” He was a last-minute addition to the unofficial committee, taking the place of Jeffrey, Cardinal Durand who had been sent that morning to a private conference with President Carey. The hawk-faced Cardinal from Chicago studied Dionigi Stelo with narrowed eyes. “Any leads on that front?”
“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?”
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