The Secret Cardinal (31 page)

“Sounds like Ireland,” Kilkenny offered.

“Among those who came were Tibetans. Monks settled in a beautiful valley south of Langzhou and founded the monastery of Labrang Si at Xiahe. It is the most important monastery outside of Tibet and one of the centers of the Yellow Hat Sect. I found refuge with the monks at Labrang Si. It was very good for the spirit in difficult times.”

As Yin spoke, he stared into the distance as if his memories lay there. Absently, he moved his right hand to his chest. Tao noticed immediately.

“Is your heart bothering you again?” Tao asked.

Kilkenny turned in his seat. Despite Jing's initial diagnosis of stress, Kilkenny knew a combat medic was no substitute for a cardiologist.

“My heart is troubled,” Yin replied, his voice a choked whisper.

“Do you want to have the medic look at you again?” Kilkenny asked.

“No. You said we must keep moving.”

“But you are the reason we're here,” Kilkenny countered. “Do you need a doctor?”

“I am fine,” Yin lied. But behind his helmet, unseen by Kilkenny and Tao, tears streamed down his face.

 

 

SECOND LIEUTENANT SUN TONGLAI of the People's Liberation Army Air Force paced along the side of the unpaved stretch of road south of Dunhuang trying to keep warm, a futile effort against the mass of cold air flowing down like an icy river from the mountains. He lit another cigarette and thrust his gloved hands back into the pockets of his long blue coat. He drew in each breath deeply and held the
warm smoke inside his lungs, the cigarette tip a glowing ember. After a pleasant leave home, Sun did not relish the idea of freezing to death on a desolate road in the middle of nowhere.

Sun was stationed at Base 20 outside Jiuquan, and the small bus that was taking him back sat by the side of the road with a flat tire. The driver, with the help of a few passengers, had removed the damaged tire and was mounting the spare. With any luck, they would soon reload all the baggage and once again be on the road.

“What is that sound?” one of Sun's fellow passengers asked.

At first, Sun heard nothing. Then a sharp note rose above the rushing wind, almost a whistle but constant and growing in intensity.

“Is that a plane?” another asked.

“I'm not sure,” Sun replied. “It sounds too small, and too low to the ground. Perhaps it is just an echo coming through the mountains.”

Because he was an Air Force officer, most passengers accepted Sun's explanation of the phenomenon, but the sound continued to puzzle him. He scanned the heavens, looking for running lights that would reveal a passing aircraft's position, but he saw only stars and a sickle moon.

Something black crossed the bright band of the Milky Way, large enough to blot out handfuls of stars. It was followed by a second shape, then a third—three distinct black forms with scalloped wings.

“Too big for birds,” one passenger said.

“They are making the noise,” another offered.

“You're military,” a fellow passenger demanded. “What is it?”

“I don't know,” Sun admitted before catching himself. “Listen, people, do not tell anyone what you have seen. If it is military and they are flying at night, you are not supposed to see it. Just forget about it.”

46

VATICAN CITY

“Where did you find this?” Donoher asked.

The sleek black device was rectangular with rounded edges, about the size of the camerlengo's palm, and less than a half inch thick. The face consisted of an LCD screen framed in silver and an array of tiny silver oval buttons. Above the LCD screen were three small holes for the speaker and the name
BlackBerry
.

“In Cardinal Velu's apartment,” Grin replied. “It was packed in among his things.”

Donoher switched on the phone. A screen graphic appeared as the BlackBerry booted up and tried to acquire a signal.

“It won't work down here,” Grin said, reminding Donoher that they were in the catacombs. “I tried it in the apartment as well—I don't think Velu's carrier in Bombay has a roaming deal with any of the local providers. Then one of the Swiss Guards noticed something interesting about this particular BlackBerry.”

“Did he now?” Donoher asked.

“This model is WiFi-enabled and compatible with the Vatican's wireless network,” Grin continued. “And it's standard issue for the Swiss Guards. From his apartment, Cardinal Velu can send and receive e-mail and text messages.”

“Has he done so?”

“I haven't checked. I thought I'd better bring it up with you before rifling through his e-mail.”

“Of all the cardinals, Velu makes the least sense for this. He's been involved in our negotiations with the Chinese regarding Yin and our other clergy for years.” Donoher handed the BlackBerry back to Grin.
“I want you to review Velu's messages, but before you do, let's have a chat with him.”

 

 

THEY FOUND VELU deep in prayer, alone and kneeling at the grave of Pope Leo XIV in the Old Grottoes beneath Saint Peter's Basilica. The claustrophobic space was all that remained of the original basilica, its volume so reduced that a man of average height could touch the ceiling with little difficulty. All around them lay the intricately fashioned tombs of popes dating to antiquity.

As the sound of their echoing footsteps drew closer, Velu lifted his head and turned in their direction.

“So sorry to disturb you, Esteemed Brother,” Donoher apologized.

Velu slowly rose to his feet. “Just visiting with an old friend. I was unable to pay my respects before the funeral. I do not believe I have met your associate, Father?”

“It's Mister,” Grin corrected him. “I'm not a priest.”

“I do not understand,” Velu said, eyeing Grin's cassock.

“Mister Grinelli's sole oath is to the conclave,” Donoher explained. “He is dressed in this manner so that he may move about the Vatican without drawing undo attention to himself. He is involved with liberating Bishop Yin.”

Velu extended his hand and clasped Grin's tightly. “Then my prayers are with you.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“What has brought you both here?” Velu asked.

“We're looking for answers,” Donoher replied.

Grin reached into his pocket and pulled out the BlackBerry. “This device was found in your room. Is it yours?”

“Yes,” Velu replied.

“Please think quite carefully about the next question,” Donoher said, “because we do intend to investigate this device. Have you employed it since swearing the oath to secrecy?”

“Yes.”

Donoher seemed almost pained by the admission. “Then you admit to breaking your holy oath?”

Velu nodded. “I had to.”

“But in heaven's name, why?”

“My mother is dying. That's why I did not come to Rome immediately. I stayed with her until the last possible moment. I even offered to claim grave impediment and forgo the conclave, but she would not hear of it. She hopes that I will be pope.”

“What does your mother have to do with Yin?” Grin asked.

“Nothing at all,” Velu replied. “I just pray the new pope will be named soon so I can be with her at the end.”

“Just so we are crystal clear about this,” Donoher said, “with whom have you been in contact?”

“My brother, Raji. He and his wife are helping to care for my mother.”

“And no one else?” Grin asked.

“No one.”

“Was your communication with Raji strictly about your mother's health,” Donoher continued, “and you at no time relayed information about the conclave?”

Velu nodded. “My oath regarding the secrecy of the conclave remains intact.”

“Still, you broke your oath to refrain from contact outside the conclave,” Donoher said, “and you will be subject to penalties as judged appropriate by the next pope. Also, your BlackBerry is forfeited for the duration of the conclave, and you will from this moment abide by
all
the norms and procedures of the Apostolic Constitution.”

“I understand,” Velu said.

“You are also forbidden to mention to anyone that your room was searched—this is a matter of life or death.”

“Yin?” Velu asked.

“Yes. You should have come to me with this,” Donoher said in a softer tone. “The particular congregation could have worked something out. Now that I know your situation, I will certainly urge them to do so on your behalf.”

“Thank you,” Velu said.

Donoher turned to Grin. “Do what you can with that device, and be ready to continue your search as soon as the conclave reconvenes.”

47

ROME

The Mercedes S500 Guard glided up to the curb at the Piazza di San Giovanni in Laterano. It was late in the afternoon, and the Lateran Obelisk that once stood at the Temple of Ammon in Thebes cast a long, slender shadow east toward the Scala Sancta. Two bodyguards stepped from the car and surveyed the area before permitting their charge to exit the armored sedan. Enzo Bruni appeared small in the company of the men sworn to protect him, though he stood five-eight and added a couple inches more with a thick head of wavy black hair. A stylish man, Bruni wore a perfectly tailored suit and expensive leather shoes. He took pride in his appearance, just as he took pride in his standing in the leadership of the Neopolitan Camorra—one of the four primary criminal organizations operating in Italy.

The bodyguards led the Camorra don to the side entrance of the basilica. A devout man despite his profession, Bruni sought the sacrament of reconciliation each week. He did so at a randomly different church, which pleased his chief of security because it avoided predictability.

The Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano was the true basilica of Rome and the diocese administered by the pope as bishop of Rome. Throughout the Middle Ages, the basilica and its adjacent palace were the seat of papal power, eclipsed only by the Vatican in the late fourteenth century. Bruni entered through the medieval portico, passing a statue of Henry IV of France, the protector of the basilica.

Bruni crossed himself as he passed the tomb of Pope Innocent III and continued toward the narthex. His footsteps echoed on the Cosmatesque floor—a work of art fashioned in swirling patterns of marble.
From modest beginnings in the fourth century, the interior of the basilica was continually modified over time. An ornate wooden ceiling floated high above the floor, lit from beneath by clerestory windows and supported by arches and pillars designed by Boromini. The basilica's history matched that of the Church itself, for it had been the scene of both glory and tragedy, all the while growing bit by bit through the ages.

As in Saint Peter's, the narthex of San Giovanni contained a confessio and a papal altar covered by an ornate ciborium. Rendered in the Gothic style, the structure featured twelve frescoed panels by Barna de Siena and a reliquary chamber containing the heads of Saints Peter and Paul. Bruni genuflected before the altar, then continued down through the center of the church to the confessional.

Bruni examined his conscience as he waited his turn, reviewing any actions through which he spiritually turned his back on God. Only one weighed on his mind today, but Bruni feared it would be the one that damned him to hell for all eternity.

An elderly woman stepped out of the confessional and shared a meek smile with him. Nearly everyone who sought regular confession was Bruni's age or older, people raised in the Church before Vatican II. Ironically, while the woman confessed her angry thoughts at an inconsiderate neighbor or some other minor transgression, many of those in greatest need of reconciliation rarely availed themselves of the sacrament.

Bruni stepped into the confessional and was greeted by a young priest barely a few years out of the seminary. The priest had the kind of face that made a person feel welcome in this most awkward and revealing of church rituals. Gone were the screens and kneelers in the confessionals of the old Church, visual barriers between supplicant and confessor. Bruni sat down and bowed his head.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” the priest began, Bruni crossing himself in time.

The priest read a brief passage from scripture that emphasized the love in which God held all people, then invited Bruni to talk. In the modern Church, the sacrament evolved from rote formula into a more substantive conversation.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession,” Bruni began. “Father, while I am seeking absolution from my sins, I voluntarily omit some of what I am about to tell you from the seal of confession. What you decide to do with this information I leave to your conscience, but for the sake of my own soul I feel I must give you that opportunity. The matter I wish to discuss is a serious one.”

“I understand,” the priest said calmly, his voice belying the concern he felt.

“I am a leader of the Camorra. I and other men of my profession are seeking to influence the selection of the next pope. The cardinal we support is a good man and will serve the Church faithfully, but we also believe his selection will serve our interests as well. Two nights ago, we received information that Pope Leo, God rest his soul, sent some men into China to break a bishop out of jail and get him out of that country.”

The priest's eyes narrowed. What remained of his warm smile melted into a thin straight line.

“Your face says you don't believe me.”

“I'm sorry,” the priest stammered, trying to regain a sense of neutrality.