The Secret Cardinal (4 page)

Hwong wound through the narrow streets of the district before heading northwest along Via della Quattro Fontane. She ran at a modest pace, warming up her legs and finding her stride. A little over a kilometer into her run, she stopped beside Bernini's Fontana della Barcaccia in the Piazza de Spagna for a drink of water and a quick check of her pulse rate. Then with ferocious intensity, she stormed up the Spanish Steps toward the Sallustian Obelisk and the church of Sant' Andrea della Fratte. At the top, she turned and descended the majestic staircase at a comfortable jog, allowing her legs and breathing to recover. She repeated the cycle five times before continuing up Viale Trinita del Monti toward the Piazza del Popolo.

 

 

THE TYLENOL CAPLETS rattled like dried beans in a maraca, their hard gelatin shells tapping against the convenient travel-sized container whose compact form Nolan Kilkenny found decidedly inconvenient as he rummaged to locate it within the many zippered and Velcro-flapped compartments of the toiletries kit that hung from the back of the bathroom door. His search was not aided by the hangover-induced headache that made even the memory of pain relievers in his luggage a minor miracle. The black organizer and its thoughtful complement of grooming and health products had been a gift from his bride to replace the tattered wreck that had seen him through sixteen years of adult bachelor life.
Out with the old . . . with love, Kelsey
read
the note he found tucked inside when she presented it to him. Ten months later, the note was still there.

Kilkenny located the bottle, its tamper-resistant seal still intact. He peeled off the skin of thick clear plastic in jagged strips, popped off the childproof cap, and quickly downed a pair of pills with a handful of cold water and a prayer for speedy relief.

This wasn't his first hangover, nor was it the worst—those memorable events having occurred when Kilkenny was a newly minted high school graduate and later, while serving as a junior officer in the Navy SEALs, after the successful snatch-and-grab of a terrorist leader residing comfortably in Iran. Those and a few other painful mornings-after followed revelry shared with close friends and comrades in arms. Kilkenny rarely drank, and when he did it was typically in small amounts and on social occasions. But last night he had consumed a lot of red wine with dinner at a nearby
ristorante,
and had done so alone.

The image staring back at Kilkenny in the mirror evinced the malaise gnawing inside him, and his futile attempt to marinate that unwanted sensation in Chianti both sickened and angered him. He knew men who had anesthetized their senses with alcohol and drugs for lesser reasons than his, and he vowed that his loss of faith, of hope, would not be his undoing.

After scrubbing the film from his mouth, Kilkenny splashed some water on his face and head, matting down the disheveled tufts of red hair. His hotel room was small but efficient and, most important, located within walking distance of the Vatican, where he spent most of his time. He had come to Rome at the behest of his father, to work with his father's oldest friend, Malachy Donoher, the Cardinal Librarian of the Holy Roman Church.

Kilkenny's job was to improve the flow of information between the Vatican Library and the Pontifical Academy of Sciences, for it was through these two entities that the Church remained abreast of advances in science and technology while retaining an institutional memory that spanned a millennium. Donoher believed the academy and library, working in concert, could give the pope a clearer view of advances that
might pose moral or ethical problems tempered with a broad historical perspective, the goal of which was to provide the Holy Father with wise counsel when matters of science and faith seemed at odds.

Officially, the invitation to be a consultant to the Vatican drew on Kilkenny's technical expertise at managing information—a fairly simple task to be remunerated with a modest fee. But Kilkenny suspected that Donoher and his father had conspired, creating an assignment that was merely a pretext to force him from an empty home in Ann Arbor, where his surroundings could only remind him of all he had lost. Kilkenny had buried himself in work in the two months since the deaths of his wife and unborn child, but grief remained his constant companion. He existed only in the present, his desired future obliterated by a cruel disease.

He appreciated the thought behind the invitation, even if the job demanded little of his mental energies. Kilkenny's true work—as a venture capitalist with his father's company, MARC (Michigan Applied Research Consortium)—kept him fully engaged with new and interesting challenges. Kilkenny oversaw the transfer of nascent technologies from academic research laboratories into the world of commerce—he was a trafficker in intellectual property. And not just any property. From quantum energy cells to strange organisms hidden for eons in dark waters beneath miles of polar ice, Kilkenny served as guardian and even midwife to innovations that would change the future. His profession was both exhilarating and lucrative, and on more than one occasion deadly.

Travel was part of his job, so living in Rome for a few weeks did not seem at all unusual. And he had to admit, the Vatican did offer a dramatic change of atmosphere, no doubt exactly what his father and Donoher had intended.

Several new garment bags hung in the closet above two boxes of new dress shoes. He had arrived in Rome two weeks earlier wearing jeans, sneakers, and an Ireland rugby jersey, carrying a briefcase and a small overnight bag, but the garment bag containing the rest of his clothing had gone astray. When it became apparent that the bag's MIA status was likely permanent, Kilkenny took advantage of the opportunity to update his wardrobe at several of Rome's finer clothiers.

After drying his face, Kilkenny traded the boxers he'd slept in for running shorts and a T-shirt and began to stretch lightly. His freckled skin gave a boyish look to his six-foot frame—a lean, well-defined body built not for bursts of speed or strength but endurance. He clipped a fanny pack around his waist, retrieved a pair of Saucony running shoes from the closet, and sat on the edge of the double bed to pull them on. A biography of Mark Twain rested on the nightstand along with a black diver's watch and a small triptych frame.

Reaching for his watch, Kilkenny's eyes lingered on the woman pictured in the frame's central panel. The photo was taken in July, when Kilkenny and his wife were vacationing in Harbor Springs, Michigan. Kelsey was wading knee-deep in the placid water of Little Traverse Bay clad in a brightly colored bikini, unaware of the camera trained upon her. She was gazing down at her belly, both hands placed as if cradling the life growing within. It was the middle of her fifth month, and Kelsey was delighted with her maternal shape. Kilkenny remembered the moment and her amazed expression as their child stirred. She had called him over and pressed his hand to the spot where she had felt movement.

The frame to the left of Kelsey's picture contained a slip of light gray paper marked with a pair of black impressions, footprints no larger than the end of Kilkenny's thumb. These were the only marks his son would ever make on the world, aside from the ones Toby left on his father's heart. Framed to the right was a mass card from the funeral of his wife and son this past August.

“I still dream of you and me at the beach, playing with Toby,” Kilkenny said to his wife as he fastened his watch. “I miss you both so much.”

He grabbed his room key and a water bottle from the minibar refrigerator and left.

 

 

AS HWONG REACHED the Piazza del Popolo, a melodic ring tone chimed from her fanny pack. She paused her iPod and answered her cell phone.

“Hwong,” she said cautiously.

“
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus teacum,”
a man said, carefully enunciating each syllable in the first line of an old Latin prayer.

“
Benedicta tu in mulieribus
—” Hwong's voice wavered as she recited the second line, completing the code phrase for her contact inside the Vatican, “
et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus
.”

“Are you being followed?” The man's English was warmed with an Irish lilt.

“Yes,” she replied.

“I know what you've been asked to do is dangerous,” the man offered sincerely.

“But it must be done,” Hwong said.

“A man will be running across Ponte Cavour shortly. Check your phone for his picture.”

“I don't understand.”

“We never walk alone, my child.”

The call ended and Hwong found on her phone's LCD screen a picture of a man running. He appeared to be about her age, was clean-shaven, and possessed a head of bright red hair. She deleted the photo, stowed her phone, and resumed her run, heading west down Via Ferdinand de Savoia toward the Tiber River. At the foot of the Ponte Margherita, she turned south and ran down the scenic tree-lined
lungotevere
that followed the meandering course of the river.

Hwong saw the runner crossing Ponte Cavour over the Tiber as she moved past the Ara Pacis Augustea and the Mausoleum of Augustus. He turned south on the lungotevere, and she picked up her pace to close the distance. The man stood a full head taller than Hwong and ran with his back straight and head high. He moved purposefully, not a wasted motion in his long-legged stride. She glided up beside him, but he was so lost in thought that he failed to notice. A glint of metal on his left hand caught her eye, a simple gold band around his ring finger.

“Excuse me,” Hwong said politely. “You speak English?”

Startled, Kilkenny turned his head and was surprised to discover a beautiful young woman running beside him.

“Most of the time,” Kilkenny replied warily. “Why do you ask?”

“I speak some Italian and French, but my English is better. And you do not look Italian or French.”

Kilkenny nodded with a laugh, and Hwong saw a warm twinkle in his green eyes.

“Command of three languages is impressive, but I'm guessing you know at least one more. Where are you from?”

“China—I live in the city of Hangzhou.”

“That's near Shanghai, isn't it?”

“Yes, south of Shanghai.”

“So, what brings you to Rome?” Kilkenny asked.

“Business. And you?”

“The same.”

“Do you run far today?” Hwong asked.

“That depends on what you think is far. Since you're having no trouble keeping up with me, I'm guessing you earned that shirt. How'd you finish?”

“Three hours and eighteen minutes.”

“You beat my personal best,” Kilkenny admitted. “What I'm running today will probably be easy for you. The route is a little more than ten kilometers, but it has a challenging hill near the end. Care to join me?”

“Yes,” Hwong beamed, relieved. “This is my first visit to this city, and I do not like to run alone.”

“I'm just getting used to it again. Where are you staying?”

“A hotel near the Spanish Steps.”

The man thought for a moment. “That'll add another two K. How are you set for time?”

“I have a meeting at noon.”

“You'll be back at your hotel well before then,” Kilkenny promised. “What's your name?”

“Hwong Yi Jie.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Hwong. I'm Nolan Kilkenny.”

 

 

THEY RAN DOWN THE LUNGOTEVERE, the relatively flat route an easy scenic course for the distance veterans. Hwong stowed her ear-buds so they could talk, and Kilkenny acted as tour guide, pointing out items of interest along the way. Behind them, Liu coordinated the
rotating surveillance of the three cars, never letting the runners out of sight.

“We've finished searching the room,” one of the Italians at Hwong's hotel called Liu to report. “Her laptop and PDA are clean, and we've found no disks or storage devices in the room. The room safe was open and empty, and she's left nothing with the front desk. She must have what you're looking for on her.”

“Are you and your men the only ones who have been in the room since she left?” Liu asked.

“
Si.
”

“Then pull them back and await further orders.”

Liu's driver followed the two runners as they turned at Ponte Aventino, crossing to the west side of the Tiber into the Trastevere District.

“The woman has what I want,” Liu told Chin. “Tell the men to be prepared to take her on my orders.”

“What about the man running with her?” one of the Italians asked.

“If he gets in the way,” Liu replied, “kill him.”

“Sir,” the driver offered, “if you're looking for a secluded place to grab the woman, they're taking the
passaggiata
to the top of Monte Gianicolo. This early in the morning, only a handful of tourists will be watching the sunrise up on the piazzale.”

Liu studied the wooded hill rising up ahead. “We'll follow the runners to the top, then take the woman there.”

 

 

KILKENNY QUICKENED THE PACE as he led Hwong through the switchback turns in Via Garibaldi.

“That's San Pietro in Montorio,” Kilkenny explained with increasingly labored breaths as they sped past a late-fifteenth-century church and convent. “It was built because local tradition once held that Nero crucified the Apostle Peter here. That actually happened on Vatican Hill, not far from the other Saint Peter's. Up ahead is the Baroque spectacular Fontana dell'Acqua Paulo. The locals call it
Fontanone
, which means really big fountain.”

Hwong laughed at Kilkenny's joke. “Why did they build it?”