“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.
“That’s Charles, Cardinal Mendosa,” Nimmo corrected. “First name, then title and last name.”
This threw DuBois off his stride. “What?”
“Charles, Cardinal Mendosa. That’s the right form. If you’re going to talk about him, you ought to get it right. Okay. What about him?” Nimmo signaled Willie with the hand DuBois could not see, warning him to keep silent. “And you’re blocking the entrance to my home.”
“Your brother-in-law arrived at the airport this afternoon. No one has seen him since.” He stabbed a finger in Nimmo’
s direction. “You were at the airport.”
“Yep,” said Nimmo, volunteering nothing.
“And you picked up someone at the airport.” The Bronco was a bit too high for DuBois to make his revelation forcefully enough, but he did his best. “You have the British journalist Fitzwilliam Foot with you. He arrived on the plane with Cardinal Mendosa.”
“And?” Nimmo asked unhelpfully. “You going to move your van, DuBois?”
“Where is Cardinal Mendosa?” demanded DuBois. Once he got going, he was very good at creating excitement. “What has become of the Cardinal?”
“You’ll have to ask him when he turns up,” said Nimmo. “He left in a limousine right after we said a couple words.”
“And you brought Mister Foot here with you.” The way he said it, the action was highly suspicious.
“That’s right.” He paused, then went on. “Not that I have any obligation to tell you this, but I want you out of my hair, and I want the rest of you vultures to leave me and my family alone. So get this: Mister Foot isn’t part of the Archdiocese, and so we’re hosting him while the Cardinal tends to business. Mister Foot is not available to the press, and is not at liberty to discuss anything the Cardinal is or is not doing while he’s here. Neither is anyone in my family. Pass that on to the rest of your pals, won’t you?” He revved the engine a bit. “You misquote me or turn this into a story and you’ll answer to Patterson Soames,” he added calmly; Patterson Soames was one of the two finest attorneys in the state of Texas and a force to reckon with. “Now, will you get your van out of my way? Or do I have to ram it?”
Willie glanced toward the portals, so inaccessibly near, and noticed that there were two young men on horseback waiting there, both in bright yellow slickers. He wanted to ask Nimmo about them, but realized that he was expected to remain silent. From years of pursuing stories, Willie knew that once a subject opened his mouth, he could be made to say more.
“No one has seen Cardinal Mendosa since he arrived,” said DuBois, trying to regain his momentum.
“You mean that no one has admitted to seeing him,” Nimmo replied. “You got two minutes to move that van of yours, and then I’m taking it off the road with my bumper. Got that? Mark and counting.” He looked at his watch.
“They’re saying there’ll be more riots,” DuBois declared, prodding for all he was worth.
“Pretty safe bet. Ninety-six seconds.” He revved his engine once more.
The cameraman intervened. “Hey, Henry, we better—”
DuBois looked nervously at his watch. “This isn’t over, Nimmo. We’ll find the Cardinal, and we’ll insist on answers.” The assertion was more for his audience than for Nimmo and both of them knew it.
As DuBois and his cameraman hurried back to the white van, Nimmo said softly, “Better stay right where you are, Chaz. I don’t think they’re going very far.”
“If I stay here much longer I won’t be able to move,” Mendosa said softly. “But your point’s taken, Spook.”
The van moved away with a lurch, and Nimmo’s Bronco picked up some speed. He nodded toward the horsemen. “Tom and his friend Cliff will escort us to the house.”
Willie looked at the horsemen, seeing the resemblance to his father in the nearer of the two. “Do we need an escort?”
“We might have,” said Nimmo, then explained. “They’re carrying shotguns, under the raingear. My orders, of course. If DuBois or any of the others try to come on this property, they’ll get peppered for it.” If he noticed how shocked Willie was, he made no response.
“You mean you’d expect them to shoot?” Willie asked. They were on the graveled drive now, the two horsemen following them a short distance back.
“You’re in Texas, Foot,” said Nimmo with half-concealed amusement. “Why else would they carry shotguns?”
Before Willie could think of anything to say, Mendosa spoke up from the back. “Do you mind if I try to get up now?”
Nimmo laughed outright. “Go ahead. Even if they’re using binoculars, they won’t be able to see you through the spare tire.” He indicated the first of the training grounds on the right. “We put in a small track since you were here last, Chaz. And two arenas, back of the old training rings—one of ‘em enclosed and covered, for bad weather.”
Mendosa had got back onto the seat and was brushing off his slacks. “And for awkward relatives?”
“If you want to ride, you go right ahead. Use the arena, or stay in the outer pastures, where they can’t see you.” The main house was very near and Nimmo slowed down. “You ride, Foot?”
“Not very well, and not Western, in any case.” It had been seven or eight years since he had last been on a horse.
“No trouble there. We got a dozen polo saddles. You can use one of ‘em.” This time he was aware of Willie’s surprise. “That’s our main market, other than cutting horses—polo ponies. We keep a couple strings of ‘em ourselves. My oldest daughter, Laurel, she played in college. Girls play polo in the U.S.” He braked the Bronco in front of an extensive garage. To the left the house, built more along Spanish than the usual ranch lines, was bright with new, white paint.
“They’re good horses,” said Mendosa. “And maybe I’ll spend some time on one.” He slapped at the dust on his sleeve. “What a homecoming.”
* * *
Cardinal Ruhig was the first to arrive, and he paced nervously while he waited for the others. Nine floors below him he watched the traffic snarl. It was difficult for him to concentrate, and that made him angry. He had to think clearly now. The others were expecting it of him; he owed them the keenness of thought that had made him a Cardinal in the first place. He wondered if he ought to have taken the man whose offices these were into his confidence; probably not. He knew better than to permit too many people to share this or any other secret. He fingered the lapel pins, finding them reassuring.
Andros, Cardinal Dellegos arrived a few minutes later. In his business suit he looked like a politician, one of the sleek, aggressive men who were always hovering in the background of major events. He, too, had his lapel pins in place. “I’ve found someone who is eager to join us. He’ll arrive in about half an hour.”
At that Cardinal Ruhig paled. “I don’t think that was a very wise idea,” he heard himself say, and admitted that he felt exposed. Four in a plan was chancy, but five put them all at hazard. “We must keep this to as few associates as possible. There is always a great risk, and it grows greater with every additional man.”
“You aren’t going to mind this,” said Cardinal Dellegos. “You’ll be glad to have him with us.” He looked around the stark, elegant office. “Who is your contact here in Modena?”
“Do you think it wise for me to tell you?” Cardinal Ruhig asked, beginning to pace. “You may want to have certain things left…to your imagination, in case we do not succeed.” The last was difficult to say, and he could not face Cardinal Dellegos. “We have to consider the ramifications of failure.”
“For ourselves or for the Church? In my opinion, the Church is far more at risk than anyone within it, but do the others agree?” Cardinal Dellegos asked. He was clearly out of patience with Cardinal Ruhig. “You’re conversant with the law. You know they can’t touch us, not while we’re at the Vatican. We’re not part of the Italian or European courts. If there were ever a place intended to protect conspirators, it’s the Vatican.”
“And that is about to end,” said Cardinal Ruhig. “You weren’t at the last meeting. It was very sobering. Because of the murder investigation, that Chinese woman has decided that Vatican Security has to become part of Interpol, and that Vatican Security must cooperate fully with the EECPA. In fact, she wants Eurocops stationed at the Vatican, in addition to Vatican Security. Dionigi Stelo is furious, outraged.”
“With good reason,” said Cardinal Dellegos, his olive skin darkening through the cheeks. “Is there anything we—” He broke off as the door to the outer office swung back. Cardinals Sinclair and Belleau
came in; each had the look and bearing of a corporate leader. When the basic formalities had been observed, Cardinal Dellegos went on. “What can we do to lend weight to Stelo’s position? We must keep the secular police out of the Vatican, or.…” He had no words to describe the consequences he imagined.
“It’s Cardinal Tayibha,” said Cardinal Sinclair. “If he had not been poisoned and if the Vatican had not brought in assistance, Stelo’s arguments would be stronger. For ordinary security problems, and for the protection of the Pope and the College of Cardinals, the Swiss Guard and Vatican Security are expert. Sadly, however, the Chinese woman is right: they are not able to deal with this sort of criminal investigation. There isn’t much we can do to counter her primary goal, that of finding the murderer or murderers of Cardinal Tayibha. We do not have adequate forces or sufficiently experienced investigators to deal with problems like Cardinal Tayibha’s murder. If the murder is not investigated, or investigated only perfunctorily, it would look very bad.”
Cardinal Ruhig shook his head slowly. “It’s a persuasive notion, but how many murders do we have at the Vatican? Why should we align ourselves with crime laboratories and forensic investigators as a matter of course? Isn’t it possible to establish an occasional link, for those occasions when we need to avail ourselves of the files of Interpol or the laboratories of the Eurocops?”
“You don’t need to try to convince me,” said Cardinal Belleau, indignation making his jaw thrust forward belligerently. “I find the whole matter disgraceful. We are the Church, not another European agency. It isn’t fitting for us to seek to accommodate the political climate of Europe in exchange for better police facilities.”
“Fitting or not, it is something we must be prepared to do, or face the suspicions and accusations of the press all over the world.” Cardinal Sinclair had not bothered to cultivate his whimsical humor for these men. “We are being pilloried already—if we give any appearance whatsoever of concealing the nature of Cardinal Tayibha’s death, then we will lend credibility to the rumor that we have been conspiring to protect the murderer.” He went to the cabinet set between two tall bookcases. “I need a drink. I don’t know about the rest of you.” With that he pulled open the closed shelf and revealed an extensive array of bottles and glasses.
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