‘Eventually, but to paraphrase an old Irish blessing, “May Yin be across the border two hours before the Chinese know he isn’t dead.” Like any bureaucracy, it’ll take a while for the paperwork to move through the system. I’m counting on that lag time. And my associate, Mister Grinelli, has a few tricks to ensure Beijing remains blind to what’s happening in Chifeng.’
‘This is true?’ the Pope asked Grin.
‘China has spent a lot of money on communications technology in recent years, but there isn’t a bit of it I can’t put to sleep.’
‘We will do everything possible to protect Yin and the people who go in to rescue him,’ Kilkenny promised.
The Pope bowed his head and considered for a moment all that he had heard, then arched an eye toward Donoher.
‘Cardinal Donoher, what do you think?’ the Pope asked.
‘Your Holiness, I believe this plan has a fine chance to succeed. It’s simple, and it relies on guile rather than violence to achieve our aim. Bishop Yin could well be in Rome before Beijing realizes what has transpired.’
The Pope took Donoher’s advice with a nod, then slipped his right hand into the left sleeve of his simar and withdrew a piece of fine paper folded in thirds.
‘In anticipation that you would do as I asked, I have prepared this letter authorizing you to proceed. It is written in my hand and bears the seal of my holy office.’
The Pope handed the document to Donoher, then turned back to Kilkenny. A wry smile curled the corners of the pontiff’s mouth, and his blue eyes shone warmly. He shook an admonishing finger at Kilkenny.
‘When stealing from dragons, it is wise to be gone long before the beasts awaken.’
7
The Pope sat quietly in the Redemptoris Mater Chapel, his hands slowly working the smooth beads of an old familiar rosary. His prayers were interwoven with meditations on the Immaculate Heart of Mary, for he believed it was only through the Blessed Mother’s intervention that his life had been spared from an assassin’s bullets early in his pontificate.
He prayed as he had throughout his long life, his daily devotions to a faith that had sustained him through years of suffering and the burden of more than a quarter century as the successor of Saint Peter, whose bones rested nearby beneath the altar of the basilica. One day, the Pope knew, his body would be placed in the crypt with those of the other men who had preceded him as Bishop of Rome.
As he prayed, the Pope heard a distant sound as if waves were crashing on the shore. Thinking it the rushing traffic outside, he ignored the sound and continued with his devotions. But the waves continued to crash, each building in volume and intensity until the sound of water enveloped him. Then the crashing disappeared.
‘Jedrek,’ a familiar voice spoke softly.
Hearing the nickname used only by his family and closest friends, the Pope paused in his recitation. He detected a faint floral scent in the air, a garden in springtime.
‘Jedrek,’ the voice called again, this time more distinct. A lyrical voice, familiar, but from his distant past.
Looking up, the Pope saw a woman with blonde hair and blue eyes wearing a plain dress. She stood near the altar, and the air around her was suffused with an ethereal light. The woman was young and beautiful, as he had always remembered her in his heart.
‘Mamusia,’ Pope Leo said, his voice choked with joy. He last saw her a month before his tenth birthday. ‘I have missed you so much.’
The woman smiled. ‘I have always been with you, my son. Your long journey is over. Take my hand.’
The Pope felt a new strength flowing through his aged body, a vigor he thought lost in the waning years of his life. He rose and stood tall, his first steps poised and confident. He glanced down at his body. His hands were those of a younger man, and his lean frame was clad in a black cassock. Despite the turns his life had taken, the road that led him from an old wooden church in the Polish countryside to the glory of the Vatican, Andrzej Bojnarowicz had never sought to be anything but a parish priest.
The young priest turned and saw his former self, a chrysalis empty as the tomb after Christ’s resurrection. In the face of the dead Pope, he saw the joy he had felt at the sight of his mother.
‘Come, Jedrek,’ his mother said lovingly. ‘It is time to go.’ Andrzej Bojnarowicz took his mother’s hand for the first time since he was a child. He felt her warmth and love and followed her into the light.
8
Archbishop Sikora entered the chapel to prepare the Pope for an early evening appointment with the cardinal in charge of the Pontifical Commission for the Vatican City State. He carried with him a BlackBerry PDA filled with the Pope’s appointments scheduled several months out.
‘Your Holiness,’ Sikora said as he approached the pontiff.
The lack of an immediate response did not surprise him; the Pope prayed and slept deeply. As he came around the Pope’s chair, Sikora saw the pontiff’s rapt expression and dropped the PDA on the floor.
‘Jedrek,’ Sikora blurted out reflexively
He placed two fingers on the Pope’s neck; the skin felt cool to the touch and he found no pulse. Sikora scooped the PDA off the floor and said a brief prayer of thanks that the device was still functional as he keyed in a call to the Pope’s personal physician.
Donoher entered the papal apartments and went directly to the Pope’s bedroom. In his wake followed the cleric prelates, the secretary and the chancellor of the Apostolic Camera, and the master of papal liturgical celebrations — men in whose presence he was officially to declare the Pope’s death. The supine body of the supreme pontiff lay on the bed dressed in a clean white cassock. Donoher immediately noted the look of blessed serenity on the Pope’s face. Death had been kind.
Nearby stood Archbishop Sikora, the Pope’s physician, and several members of the papal staff.
‘Your Eminence,’ Sikora said, moving to kiss the cardinal’s ring.
‘Michal, please,’ Donoher said, dismissing the polite formality. ‘You found him in his chapel?’
Sikora nodded. He handed Donoher a velvet-lined pouch containing the lead seals of the papal office.
‘That we would all be so fortunate to meet God in a place that brings us great peace.’ Donoher turned to the physician. ‘Have you determined the time and manner of the Holy Father’s passing?’
‘Only that His Holiness died sometime between six and seven o’clock this evening. An area of discoloration on his head suggests the probable cause was a massive cerebral hemorrhage. His death was almost instantaneous.’
Donoher clasped the physician’s hand in both of his own. ‘Doctor, you and your staff have my sincerest gratitude for all you have done to ease his suffering over these past few years. I will pray for you, always.’
‘Grazie, Your Eminence, grazie’
Both the physician and Sikora retreated from the Pope’s bed, merging in with those who had arrived with Donoher. In his first duty as Camerlengo, Donoher approached the bedside of the Pope. He said a silent prayer as he stroked the cheek of his friend, then turned to those assembled.
‘From medieval times to up well into the last century,’ Donoher said solemnly, ‘the cardinal Camerlengo would ascertain the death of the Pope by tapping him on the forehead three times with a silver hammer. After each blow, the Camerlengo would call out the Pope’s given name and ask if he was dead. Universi Dominici Gregis makes no mention of this ancient ritual, and I see no need to further insult the body of this great man. I therefore declare that Pope Leo XIV is truly dead.’