The Secret Cardinal (11 page)

“I know, but some of the prototypes they're testing are for long-range insertion.”

“How long?”

“Don't know yet. On these new BATs, they replaced the fuel cell with a radioisotopic thermoelectric generator,” Gates pronounced each syllable carefully as he read the words off a specification sheet. “A RITEG for short. I understand they use 'em to power satellites.”

“Max, it's a nuke.”

“No shit. I guess that's why they say that with a RITEG, this thing will keep going like the Energizer Bunny. Anyhow, I figure three BATs will do the job quite nicely, and I got a trio of pilots chomping at the bit to try 'em out for real. Best of all, they're not in Uncle Sam's inventory yet—strictly off-the-books hardware.”

Kilkenny reran the animation on his computer. “Flying in and out
would solve a number of logistical problems. Off the books or not, we better make damn sure we don't leave one of these behind.”

“Yeah, the folks at Boeing who pimped this ride would be most put out.”

“Did you just use the phrase
pimped this ride
in a sentence?” Kilkenny asked.

“Yeah.
Pimp My Ride
is one of my favorite shows. I TiVo it along with
Monster Garage
and
Myth Busters
. Best TV programming since
This Old House
.”

Kilkenny laughed. “Just send me a full set of specs on the BATs. If we're going to use them, we have to figure out how to smuggle them in and out of Mongolia.”

13

VATICAN CITY
October 17

“Could I interest either of you gentlemen in a glass of wine?” Donoher asked as he entered the catacombs workroom. “Our evening meal will arrive shortly.”

Grin glanced up from the bank of monitors, his eyes tired but bright. “I prefer to imbibe only among friends, and if that's a bottle of Italian red I see in your hand, then you must be a friend.”

Kilkenny cleared a space on the worktable, and the cardinal set out three glasses and poured from a bottle of Castello di Fonterutoli Chianti Classico Riserva. The wine looked nearly black, and as Grin inhaled the bouquet, he detected traces of smoke, various fruits, licorice, and wood.

“You've let this little fellow breath a bit,” Grin said approvingly.

“Admittedly, my years in Italy have had a modestly civilizing affect upon me,” Donoher said.

Kilkenny held his glass for a moment and stared at what would be his first drink in a week, then realized that with one bottle split three ways, there was little chance of a hangover. Each man swirled the first sip around in his mouth, tickling his taste buds with the complex, delightful flavor.

“So, where do we stand?” Donoher asked.

“Other than a few minor details, we're ready to go,” Kilkenny replied. “In fact, Grin came up with a name for our covert op.”

“Did you now? Let's hear it.”

“Operation Rolling Stone,” Grin announced.

Donoher turned to Kilkenny. “You mean to tell me you've christened our sacred mission after a hedonistic rock ‘n' roll band?”

“Actually, it's an allusion to the stone that covered Christ's tomb until it was rolled away on Easter morning,” Grin explained. “Like Christ, Yin is entombed in Chifeng Prison, and we're going to roll away the stone and let him out.”

“Ah, a scriptural allusion,” Donoher said skeptically.

“Grin assures me the name has nothing to do with the several megs of Stones tunes packed into his iPod,” Kilkenny offered.

“Perish the thought.” Donoher held his glass up. “Very well then. To the success of Operation Rolling Stone.”

“Here, here,” Kilkenny and Grin chimed in, tapping their glasses with Donoher's.

Kilkenny savored the taste of the red wine and felt it working its magic. He and Grin had been working down in the catacombs almost nonstop since the pope's death, and he knew the same must be true for Donoher.

“How's it going up there?” Kilkenny asked.

“I am about where you would expect a man to be when he has to stage a state funeral and an election on a mere two-weeks notice, but I'll muddle through. Despite the chaos, what you two are trying to accomplish is never far from my thoughts and prayers. God willing, you'll finish the job before the white smoke rises.”

“Speaking of the election,” Grin said. “I've been trolling the Web, and Paddy Power is listing odds on the top cardinals. There are five in single digits.”

“The papabili,” Donoher said with an exaggerated Italian flourish. “It's dangerous to be named a favorite going into a papal election. There's an old saying that many a man has gone into conclave a pope and come out a cardinal. You aren't betting on this, I hope.”

“I don't gamble at all,” Grin replied. “Throwing money away is not my idea of a good time.”

“Is it a sin to bet on a papal election?” Kilkenny asked.

“No, but such a wager would be in extremely poor taste. Though were I a betting man, I believe my money would be safe in the top five. Any one of them would make a fine pope.”

“Who do you think has the best shot?” Kilkenny asked.

“Each papabili has his assets and liabilities. If you follow the conventional wisdom that the Church will not make two bold moves in a row, then Cardinal Magni is the clear favorite. He's the only Italian among the papabili, so he can count on garnering seventeen percent of the vote straight away. He is also very conservative and well-liked by Opus Dei.”

“Aren't those the guys who got slammed in
The Da Vinci Code
?” Grin asked.

Donoher nodded. “And at sixty-nine, his reign likely will not last as long as Pope Leo's. Magni is a very safe choice. If the European cardinals don't go for him, then they'll likely support Ryff. He's a well-respected moral theologian, a man cut from the same cloth as Pope Leo, which makes him a strong contender. He's middle-European, which to some may make him seem a bit too much like Pope Leo, but the biggest knock against him is his age.”

“Too old?” Kilkenny asked.

“Too young. He's only fifty-seven and in very good health. A man like that could reign for a very long time indeed.”

“What about the other three?” Kilkenny asked.

“Ah, that's where things get interesting,” Donoher said wryly. “The demographics of the Church have changed dramatically over the past century, and Leo's selection of cardinals reflects this fundamental change. For the first time, cardinals from Third World countries have a real opportunity to win the papacy. Escalante from Honduras would be an exciting choice. Nice fellow, very media-savvy, and wonderful in front of a crowd. His election would be the most dramatic event in the history of Latin America since Columbus washed ashore. Then there's Cardinal Velu from Bombay.”

“India?” Kilkenny said. “I didn't know there were any Catholics there.”

“Roughly twenty million, and the Church in India dates to the Apostle Thomas. Velu has also spent time in the Vatican ranks, so he's well connected here. He's a conservative theologian, fluent in more than a dozen languages, and has wonderful rapport in Africa and Southeast Asia. And he's the right age—neither too old nor too
young—but he's so conservative that the moderate cardinals might have trouble voting for him.

“Rounding out the papabili is Oromo from Sudan,” Donoher continued, “a very bright fellow and well connected in the Islamic world. He arranged the first visit by a pope to a mosque. Oromo's election could do a lot of good in building bridges between the largely Judeo-Christian West and the Islamic nations of Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. Africa is also home to more than one hundred twenty million Catholics, and one of the few places where priestly vocations are on the rise.”

“What's his downside?” Grin asked.

“That depends on the bloc of cardinals. To some, he's more conservative then Velu. Others might object that the Catholic Church in Africa is too young, especially compared with the Church in Latin America. Sadly, there may even be some cardinals who will object to him because he's black.”

“A very un-Christian stance,” Grin opined.

“Certainly one that no cardinal will admit to publicly, but regrettably it's still there. Given the needs of the Church at this moment in history, I pray the Holy Spirit will guide us past any impediments like prejudice to select the right man.”

14

At one o'clock in the morning, Cardinal Donoher led Kilkenny and Grin out of the catacombs and through a side entrance into Saint Peter's Basilica. Their footsteps echoed off the marble floors and blended like drops of water into the dull hum of reverberant energy that filled the majestic space. Scores of
sampietrini
—the faithful men of Saint Peter's—labored to clean the basilica and prepare it for the third day of public veneration for the beloved pope. The sampietrini carefully removed traces left behind by the thousands who paid their respects. When the doors reopened at dawn—already thousands were holding vigil in Saint Peter's Square—the basilica would again be immaculate.

As they approached the center of the basilica, Kilkenny found his eyes drawn to the towering structure that soared almost ninety feet above the papal altar. Four ornate tortile columns spiraled upward from marble bases to carry an intricately detailed canopy embellished with a host of angels. With the blessing of Pope Urban VIII, Bernini recast a host of bronze statues taken from the pagan Roman Pantheon into this triumphant baldacchino.

The volume of space above the baldacchino curved inward, the walls warping into mosaic-clad pendentives that supported Michelangelo's soaring dome. As its creators intended, the volume and embellishment of the basilica evoked both awe and majesty. Kilkenny read the gilt band of Latin that circumscribed the circular base of the dome and recognized the phrase as the opening line of the song the Beijing martyrs had sung.

Donoher guided them around a low, U-shaped balustrade that defined the edge of an opening in the basilica floor immediately in front
of the papal altar. A pair of bronze gates at the bottom of the U provided access to a double ramp of stairs that led down into the
confessio
—the true heart of Saint Peter's Basilica.

Kilkenny gazed down into the exedra beneath the papal altar and saw an exquisite room clad in multihued marbles. A pair of sampietrini carefully tended to the bronze lanterns of the ninety-five eternal flames that illuminated the confessio. At the far end of the space, behind a niche decorated with ninth-century mosaics and flanked by the statues of Peter and Paul, lay the tomb of Saint Peter. During an earlier visit to Rome, Kilkenny had learned from Donoher that the confessio derived its name from the confession of faith given by Saint Peter that led to his execution by Nero. What had started as a simple tomb on a hill outside the city of Rome became a shrine, then a church, and finally the Renaissance glory of the present basilica.

Christ had been right
, Donoher told him then,
Peter was the rock on which the Church was built
.

In the center of the nave, on a crimson-trimmed bier and surrounded by Swiss Guards in full regalia, lay the body of the deceased pontiff. Donoher greeted the officer in charge of the night watch and was permitted to escort his guests to the bier. The three men bowed their heads as Donoher offered a brief prayer.

The pontiff's body had been carefully prepared for burial, dressed in formal papal robes and the head crowned with a golden miter. The body of Pope Leo XIV was first displayed in the Clementine Room of the Apostolic Palace for a period of private veneration by the cardinals and the papal household before being moved to the patriarchal basilica, where it would lie in state until the funeral.

To Kilkenny, the late pontiff's face held an expression of peaceful repose that transcended any mortician's artifice. The sense of loss he felt as he stood at the bier surprised him. He had met only briefly with the pope twice, but it had been enough to leave an indelible mark. Kilkenny tried to offer a silent prayer, but the sense of a connectedness with God eluded him. Since the deaths of his wife and child, he could mouth the words of a rote formula but summon nothing more substantial.

“Pope Leo was quite something in person,” Grin said.

“That he was,” Donoher concurred. “I am certain historians will recognize him as one of the great popes.”

“I don't need a historian to justify my opinion,” Kilkenny said.

“Nor do I,” Donoher agreed. “But above all things he was a good friend, and I will miss him.”

“Thank you for arranging this visitation,” Kilkenny said, still unable to take his eyes from the pope's face.

“It was the least I could do given that you two are trying to fulfill his final wish. A shame you won't be here for the funeral, Nolan—it promises to be a most stirring event.”

“Grin can fill me in on what I miss,” Kilkenny replied, feigning disappointment. In truth, he didn't think he could stomach another funeral, the bitterness of his own loss still too fresh. “I do plan to be back in time for the installation of the new pope.”

Donoher looked at Kilkenny wryly and smiled, pleased with the young man's confidence. “By the grace of God, you'll be here with Bishop Yin, and I'll save you both good seats.”

 

 

JUST BEFORE DAWN, amid frescos by Fra Angelico that depicted the lives of Saint Stephen and Saint Lawrence, the first Christian martyrs of Jerusalem and Rome, Donoher said a private mass for Kilkenny and Grin in the restored Chapel of Nicholas V. The cardinal's homily was brief, his prayers not only for the pope's soul but also for the Holy Spirit's guidance of each man's efforts during the difficult days ahead. The
Amen
he received from his tiny congregation was both earnest and heartfelt.