about Urban and Celestine? Don’t you think that those questions can harm us—have harmed us already? Do you think the world does not pay them heed?”
“Tabloid nonsense,” said Cardinal Hetre. “From the same people who claim that Michael Jackson’s disappearance was due to extra-terrestrials, and that Chaney Groton didn’t kill all those women buried in his basement, that he was covering up for his crippled brother. It is the same mentality as that of those who are saying they will have to wear white robes and stand on the peaks of mountains on the First of January in the year two thousand because they don’t know that the Third Millennium begins the year later. We need not bother ourselves about what they say.”
“Let another Pope die and more than tabloids will claim murder,” Cardinal Montebranco warned.
“We have autopsy reports. We have made them public from the first,” protested Cardinal Bradeston. “We’ve bent over backwards to be open and fair and above-board.”
“Autopsies or no autopsies,” Cardinal Fiorivi added in his measured way, “it will be assumed that we have somehow ‘fixed’ the report, and that the results released to the media are not accurate. The Church is still powerful enough to do that, isn’t it? And sadly we have a history that supports suspicion. Undoubtedly there are those who see our very openness as a new form of treachery, a trap. We paid no notice to that book about Urban’s death, but I have been told that there are three to be published about Celestine’s death. We will be deluged by the press if another Pope dies.”
“You know, we’ve been going round and round about the next Pope for months. It really started when Urban died.” Cardinal Mendosa was on his feet and started to pace, his long rolling stride and black cowboy boots more suited to a rodeo than the Vatican. “We might as well face it: we got a Chinese woman out there and God wants her to be Pope. Remember, she’s been elected twice. We don’t know why God wants her, and we aren’t going to know why unless we let her do the job God’s given her. Let’s stop haggling about that, okay?”
The Bostonian Cardinal Bradeston made a gesture of resignation. “Are you planning to hog-tie us all until we accept that?”
“Don’t think I couldn’t,” Cardinal Mendosa said lightly. “What we’ve got to do now is find the woman and bring her back here. Hell, gentlemen, if the Tibetans can find the Dalai Lama in little kids, we ought to be able to find Zhuang Renxin and have a talk with her. My source has already located her, so it’s not impossible to get to her.” He came to a halt and rocked back on his heels. “If my source can do this, it’s only a matter of time before someone else will, too.”
“Are you volunteering to find her, Eminence?” Cardinal Cadini asked, his smile back on full.
“Sure,” said Cardinal Mendosa, so relieved that he wished he was sitting down. “Sure. I’ll do it.”
Cardinal Gemme shook his head. “How? She’s a peasant woman in central China. How will you reach her? What makes you think you’ll be allowed to talk with her at all?”
Images from his dream came back to him so intensely that he blinked. It never occurred to him that meeting Zhuang Renxin would be a problem; his vision had warned of no difficulty. “You mean, being a Cardinal and an American might work against me?” His manner was very serious though he favored Cardinal Gemme with a wide Texas grin. “We got this far, I figure we’ll get the rest of the way.”
* * *
Martin Bell had been expecting a scrambled call for most of the evening; now that it was approaching midnight, he decided that it was almost time to go home. The call from Moscow would come the next morning, he hoped. As he drew on his neat camel-hair blazer, he was startled to hear the telephone ring.
“Bell here,” he said as he lifted the receiver.
“Good evening, Martin, this is Dmitri,” said his
“Tabloid nonsense,” said Cardinal Hetre. “From the same people who claim that Michael Jackson’s disappearance was due to extra-terrestrials, and that Chaney Groton didn’t kill all those women buried in his basement, that he was covering up for his crippled brother. It is the same mentality as that of those who are saying they will have to wear white robes and stand on the peaks of mountains on the First of January in the year two thousand because they don’t know that the Third Millennium begins the year later. We need not bother ourselves about what they say.”
“Let another Pope die and more than tabloids will claim murder,” Cardinal Montebranco warned.
“We have autopsy reports. We have made them public from the first,” protested Cardinal Bradeston. “We’ve bent over backwards to be open and fair and above-board.”
“Autopsies or no autopsies,” Cardinal Fiorivi added in his measured way, “it will be assumed that we have somehow ‘fixed’ the report, and that the results released to the media are not accurate. The Church is still powerful enough to do that, isn’t it? And sadly we have a history that supports suspicion. Undoubtedly there are those who see our very openness as a new form of treachery, a trap. We paid no notice to that book about Urban’s death, but I have been told that there are three to be published about Celestine’s death. We will be deluged by the press if another Pope dies.”
“You know, we’ve been going round and round about the next Pope for months. It really started when Urban died.” Cardinal Mendosa was on his feet and started to pace, his long rolling stride and black cowboy boots more suited to a rodeo than the Vatican. “We might as well face it: we got a Chinese woman out there and God wants her to be Pope. Remember, she’s been elected twice. We don’t know why God wants her, and we aren’t going to know why unless we let her do the job God’s given her. Let’s stop haggling about that, okay?”
The Bostonian Cardinal Bradeston made a gesture of resignation. “Are you planning to hog-tie us all until we accept that?”
“Don’t think I couldn’t,” Cardinal Mendosa said lightly. “What we’ve got to do now is find the woman and bring her back here. Hell, gentlemen, if the Tibetans can find the Dalai Lama in little kids, we ought to be able to find Zhuang Renxin and have a talk with her. My source has already located her, so it’s not impossible to get to her.” He came to a halt and rocked back on his heels. “If my source can do this, it’s only a matter of time before someone else will, too.”
“Are you volunteering to find her, Eminence?” Cardinal Cadini asked, his smile back on full.
“Sure,” said Cardinal Mendosa, so relieved that he wished he was sitting down. “Sure. I’ll do it.”
Cardinal Gemme shook his head. “How? She’s a peasant woman in central China. How will you reach her? What makes you think you’ll be allowed to talk with her at all?”
Images from his dream came back to him so intensely that he blinked. It never occurred to him that meeting Zhuang Renxin would be a problem; his vision had warned of no difficulty. “You mean, being a Cardinal and an American might work against me?” His manner was very serious though he favored Cardinal Gemme with a wide Texas grin. “We got this far, I figure we’ll get the rest of the way.”
* * *
Martin Bell had been expecting a scrambled call for most of the evening; now that it was approaching midnight, he decided that it was almost time to go home. The call from Moscow would come the next morning, he hoped. As he drew on his neat camel-hair blazer, he was startled to hear the telephone ring.
“Bell here,” he said as he lifted the receiver.
“Good evening, Martin, this is Dmitri,” said his
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