The Secret Cardinal by Tom Grace Page A

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.”
    â€œYeah, the folks at Boeing who pimped this ride would be most put out.”
    â€œDid you just use the phrase pimped this ride in a sentence?” Kilkenny asked.
    â€œYeah. 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
    â€œCould 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.
    â€œYou’ve let this little fellow breath a bit,” Grin said approvingly.
    â€œAdmittedly, 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.
    â€œSo, where do we stand?” Donoher asked.
    â€œOther than a few minor details, we’re ready to go,” Kilkenny replied. “In fact, Grin came up with a name for our covert op.”
    â€œDid you now? Let’s hear it.”
    â€œOperation 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?”
    â€œActually, 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.”
    â€œAh, a scriptural allusion,” Donoher said skeptically.
    â€œGrin assures me the name has nothing to do with the several megs of Stones tunes packed into his iPod,” Kilkenny offered.
    â€œPerish the thought.” Donoher held his glass up. “Very well then. To the success of Operation Rolling Stone.”
    â€œHere, 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.
    â€œHow’s it going up there?” Kilkenny asked.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œSpeaking of the election,” Grin said. “I’ve been